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 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/wilsonshistorica02wil 
 
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OLi@[i^i 
 
 3magiiiatbe 
 
 AND OF 
 
 SCOTLAND 
 
 WITH 
 
 A GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH ¥OKDS. 
 
 Old tales I heard of wo or mirth, 
 
 Of lovers" sleifrhts, of ladies" charms. 
 
 Of witches' spells, of warriors" arms ; 
 
 Of patriot battles, won of old, 
 
 By Wallace \Yight and Bruce the bold. 
 
 SIR WALTER SC07T.. 
 
 VOL, II. 
 
 av ilark: 
 
 ROBERT T, SHANNON, 36 PARK ROVY. 
 
 1^48. 
 

 
 
 W^Q--^ ; 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 
 / ■ — / 
 
 ; 
 
 
 
 Page. 
 
 
 Page. 
 
 A Biting Evidence 
 
 328 
 
 The Profligate 
 
 190 
 
 A Passage in the Life of St. Kentigern 
 
 332 
 
 The Rothesay Fisherman 
 
 199 
 
 A Vagaiy of Fortune 
 
 216 
 
 The Miser of New Abbey . 
 
 219 
 
 
 
 The Pirate . . '. . . 
 
 235 
 
 Duncan Schulebred's Vision of Judgment 
 
 581 
 
 The Laird of Ballachie 
 
 243 
 
 Dura Den 
 
 290 
 
 The Seeker 
 
 248 
 
 
 
 The Persecution of the McMichaels . 
 
 257 
 
 Early Attachments , . . . 
 
 23 
 
 The Persecuted Elector 
 
 260 
 
 Ellen Arundel ... 
 
 365 
 
 The New Firm - . ... 
 
 267 
 
 
 
 The Sabbath Wrecks . 
 
 270 
 
 Fauconberg, or the Emigre 
 
 368 
 
 The Stone Breaker .... 
 
 275 
 
 
 
 The Mistake Rectified . 
 
 285 
 
 Johnny Brotherton's Five Sunny Days 
 
 424 
 
 The Returned Letter 
 
 296 
 
 Judith the Egyptian .... 
 
 43 
 
 The Clergyman's Daughter . 
 
 303 
 
 
 
 The Deserted Wile .... 
 
 305 
 
 Lady Rae .;.... 
 
 319 
 
 The Intended Bridegroom 
 
 312 
 
 Leaves from the Diary of an Aged Spin- 
 
 
 The Bride . . . v . 
 
 336 
 
 ster . . . . . 
 
 359 
 
 The Poacher's Progress 
 
 352 
 
 
 
 The Soldier's Wife .... 
 
 381 
 
 May Darling, the Village Pride 
 
 513 
 
 The Irish Reaper . . . . 
 
 388 
 
 Mr. Samuel Ramsay Thriven 
 
 62 
 
 The Story of Dugald Glen 
 
 The Laidley Worm of Spindleston 
 
 392 
 
 Peden's Farewell Sermon . 
 
 253 
 
 Heugh .... 
 
 399 
 
 Phebe Fortune 
 
 343 
 
 The Heroine .... 
 
 410 
 
 Polwarth on the Green 
 
 193 
 
 The Restored Son .... 
 
 428 
 
 
 
 The Floshend Inn . 
 
 444 
 
 Ringan Oliver ... 
 
 88 
 
 The Widow and Her Son . 
 
 460 
 
 
 
 The Schemer 
 
 464 
 
 The Dominie's Class .... 
 
 3 
 
 The Scottish Hunters of Hudson's Bay 
 
 480 
 
 The Old Irish Beggar Woman 
 
 19 
 
 The Heiress of Insanity . 
 
 496 1 
 
 The Enthusiast .... 
 
 35 
 
 The Goodman of Dryfield 
 
 529 
 
 The Wooers 
 
 52 
 
 The Gipsy Lover .... 
 
 544 
 
 The Double Bedded Room 
 
 78 
 
 The Cateran of Lochloy 
 
 548 
 
 The Guidwife of Coldingham 
 
 95 
 
 The Adventures of Launcelot Errington 
 
 
 The Recluse of the Hebrides 
 
 105 
 
 and his Nephew Mark 
 
 557 
 
 The Minister's Daughter 
 
 109 
 
 The Mountain Storm . . . . 
 
 573 
 
 The One Armed Tar 
 
 151 
 
 The Mysterious Disappearance 
 
 594 
 
 The Reformed ..... 
 
 159 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd . . . . 
 
 597 
 
 The Broken Heart .... 
 
 169 
 
 The Victim of the Statute Book 
 
 601 
 
 The Hypochondriac .... 
 
 174 
 
 Paying of Debts 
 
 618 
 
 } The Hermit of the Hills . 
 
 407 
 
 
 
TALES OF THE BOEDEfiS, 
 
 ■■•'O •- 
 
 THE DOMINIE'S CLASS.* 
 
 " Their ends as various as the roads they take 
 In journeying through life." 
 
 There is no class of men to whom the 
 memory turns with more complacency, 
 or more frequently, than to those who 
 '^ taught the young idea how to shoot." 
 There may he a few tyrants of the birch, 
 who never inspired a feeling save fear or 
 hatred ; yet their number is but few, and 
 I would say that the schoolmaster is 
 abroad in more senses than that in which 
 it is popularly applied. He is abroad in 
 the memory and in the affections of his 
 pupils ; and his remembrance is cherished 
 wheresoever they may be. For my own 
 part, I never met with a teacher whom I 
 did not love when a boy, and reverence 
 when a man ; from him before whom I 
 used to stand and endeavor to read my 
 task in his eyes, as he held the book be- 
 fore his face, and the page was reflected 
 in his spectacles — and from his spectacles 
 I spelled my qu — to him, who, as an elder 
 friend, bestowed on me my last lesson. 
 When a man has been absent from the 
 place of his nativity for years, and when 
 he returns and grasps the hands of his 
 surviving kindred, one of his first ques- 
 tions to them (after family questions are 
 
 * This tale has been written from the circum- 
 stance of The Tales of the Borders having 
 already been adopted as a lesson book in several 
 schools. 
 
 settled) is — " Is Mr. 
 
 my 
 
 )ld 
 
 schoolmaster, yet alive .^" And, if the 
 answer be in the affirmative, one of the 
 first on whom he calls is the dominie of 
 his boyhood ; and he enters the well-re- 
 membered school — and his first glance is 
 to the seat he last occupied — as an urchin 
 opens the door and admits him, as he 
 gently taps at it, and cries to the master, 
 (who is engaged with a class,) when the 
 stranger enters — 
 
 " Sir, here's one wants you. ' 
 Then steps forward the man of letfr-rs, 
 looking anxiously — gazing as though he 
 had a right to gaze in the stranger's fa ?e ; 
 and, throwing out his head, and particu- 
 larly his chin, while he utters the h 'si- 
 tating interrogative — ^^ Sir .'"' And the 
 stranger replies — " You don't know > le, 
 I suppose .'' I am such-an-one, who was 
 at your school at such a time." The in- 
 stiller of knowledge starts — 
 
 " What !" cries he, shifting his spec' a- 
 cles, " you Johnnie (Thomas or Peter, 
 as the case may be) So-and-so } — it's 
 not possible ! O man, I'm glad to =-8e 
 ye ! Ye'll mak me an auld man, whetlier 
 I will or no. And how hae ye been, nn' 
 where hae ye been .^" — And, as he spea :.s, 
 he flings his tawse over to the conier 
 where his desk stands. The young 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 stranger still cordially shakes liis hand, a 
 few kindly words pass between them, and 
 the teacher, turning to his scholars, says 
 — " You may put by your books and 
 slates, and go for the day ;" when an 
 instantaneous movement takes place 
 through the school ; there is a closing of 
 books, a clanking of slates, a pocketing 
 of pencils, a clutching for hats, caps, 
 and bonnets — a springing over seats, and a 
 falling of seats — a rushing to the door, and 
 a shouting when at the door — a " hurra 
 for play /" — and the stranger seems to 
 have made a hundred happy, while the 
 teacher and he retire, to 
 
 " Drink a cup o' kindness 
 For auld langsyne." 
 
 But to proceed with our story of 
 stories. There was a Dr. Montgomery, 
 a native of Annan, who, after he had been 
 for more than twenty years a physician in 
 India, where he had become rich, visited 
 his early home, which was also the grave 
 of his fathers. There were but few of his 
 relations in life when he returned — (for 
 death makes sad havoc in families in 
 twenty years) — but, after he had seen 
 them, he inquired if his old teacher, Mr. 
 Grierson, yet lived ? — and being answered 
 in the affirmative, the doctor proceeded to 
 the residence of his first instructor. He 
 found him occupying the same apartments 
 in which he resided thirty years before, 
 and which were situated on the south 
 side of the main street, near the bridge. 
 
 When the first congratulations — the 
 shaking of hands and the expressions of 
 surprise — had been got over, the doctor 
 invited the dominie to dinner ; and, after 
 the cloth was withdrawn, and the better 
 part of a bottle of Port had vanished 
 between them, the man of medicine thus 
 addressed his ancient preceptor : — 
 
 " Can you inform me, sir, what has be- 
 come of my old class-fellows ? — who of 
 them are yet in the land of the living ? 
 who have caught the face of fortune as 
 she smiled, or been rendered the ' sport o' 
 her slippery ba' .?' Of the fate of one 
 
 of them I know something, and to me 
 their history would be more interesting 
 than a romance." 
 
 " Do ye remember the names that ye 
 used to gie ane another?" inquired the 
 man of letters, with a look of importaijce, 
 which showed that the history of the 
 whole class was forthcoming. 
 
 ^' I remember them well," replied the 
 doctor ; " there were seven of us : Soli- 
 tary Sandy — Glaikit Willie — -Venture- 
 some Jamie — Cautious Watty — Leein' 
 Peter — Jock the Dunce — and myself." 
 
 " And hae ye forgot the lounderings 
 that I used to give ye, for ca'iu ane ani- 
 ther such names .^" inquired Mr. Grierson, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " I remember you were displeased at 
 it," replied the other. 
 
 ^' Weel, doctor," continued the 
 teacher, " I believe I can gratify your cu- 
 riosity, an' I am not sure but you'll find 
 that the history of your class-fellows is 
 not without interest. The career of 
 some of them has been to me as a recom- 
 pense for all the pains I bestowed on 
 them, an' that o' others has been a source 
 o' grief. Wi' some I hae been disap- 
 pointed, wi' ithers surprised ; but you'll 
 allow that I did my utmost to fleech and 
 to thrash your besetting sins out o' ye a'. 
 I will fij'st inform you what I know re- 
 specting the history of Alexander Ruther- 
 ford, whom all o' ye used to ca' Solitary 
 Sandy, because he wasna hempy like 
 yoursels. Now, sir, hearken to the his- 
 tory of 
 
 SOLITARY SANDY. 
 
 I remarked that Sandy was an extra- 
 ordinary callant, and that he would turn 
 out a character that would be heard tell 
 o' in the world ; though that he would 
 ever rise in it, as some term it, or be- 
 come rich in it, I did not believe. I 
 dinna think that e'er I had to raise the 
 tawse to Sandy in my life. He had 
 always his task as ready by heart as he 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 could count his fingers. Ye ne'er saw 
 Sandy looking over his book, or nodding 
 wi' it before his face. He and his lessons 
 were like twa acquaintances — fond o' each 
 other's company. I hae observed frae 
 the window, when the rest o' ye would 
 hae been driving at the hand-ba', cleesh- 
 in' your peerie-taps, or endangerin' your 
 legs wi' the duck-stane, Sandy wad been 
 sitting on his hunkers in the garden, 
 looking as earnestly on a daisy or ony bit 
 flower, as if the twa creatures could hae 
 held a crack wi' ane anither, and the 
 bonny leaves o' the wee silent things 
 whispered to Sandy how they got their 
 colors, how they peeped forth to meet the 
 kiss o' spring, and how the same Power 
 that created the lowly daisy called man 
 into existence, and fashioned the bright 
 sun and the glorious firmament. He was 
 once dux, and aye dux. From the first 
 moment he got to the head o' the class, 
 there he remained as immovable as a 
 mountain. There was nae trapping him ; 
 for his memory was like clock-work. I 
 canna say that he had a great turn for 
 mathematics ; but ye will remember, as 
 weel as me, that he was a great Grecian; 
 and he had screeds o' Virgil as ready aff 
 by heart as the twenty-third psalm. 
 Mony a time hae I said concerning him, 
 in the words o' Butler — 
 
 ' Latin to him's no raoredifficil, 
 Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.' 
 
 The classics, indeed, were his particular 
 hobby ; and, though I was proud o' Sandy, 
 I often wished that I could direct his 
 bent to studies o' greater practical 
 utility. His exercises showed that he 
 had an evident genius for poetry, and 
 that o' a very high order ; but his parents 
 were poor, and I didna see what poetry 
 was to put in his pocket. I, therefore, 
 by no means encouraged him to follow 
 out what I conceived to be a profitless 
 though a pleasing propensity ; but, on 
 the contrary, when I had an opportunity 
 o' speakin' to him by himsel, I used to 
 say to him — 
 
 ^ Alexander, ye have a happy turn for 
 versification, and there is both boldness 
 and originality about your ideas — though 
 no doubt they would require a great deal 
 of pruning before they could appear in a 
 respectable shape before the world. But 
 you must not indulge in verse-writing. 
 When you do it, let it only be for an ex- 
 ercise, or for amusement when you have 
 nothing better to do. It may make 
 rhyme jingle in your ears, but it will 
 never make sterling coin jink in your 
 pockets. Even the immortal Homer had 
 to sing his own verses about the streets ; 
 and ye have heard the epigram — 
 
 ' Seven cities now contend for Homer dead, 
 Through which the living Homer begged his 
 bread.' 
 
 Boethius, like Savage in our own days, 
 died in a prison ; Terence was a slave, 
 and Plautus did the work of a horse. 
 Cervantes perished for lack of food, on 
 the same day that our great Shakspeare 
 died ; but Shakspeare had worldly wis- 
 dom as well as heavenly genius. Camoens 
 died in an alms-house. The magical 
 Spenser was a supplicant at Court for 
 years for a paltry pension, till hope de- 
 ferred made his heart sick, and he vented 
 his disappointment in these words — 
 
 * I was promised on a time^ 
 To have reason for my rhyme : 
 From that time unto this season, 
 I i-eceived not rhyme nor reason.' 
 
 Butler asked for bread, and they gave him 
 a stone. Dryden lived between the hand 
 and the mouth. Poor Otway perished 
 through penury ; and Chatterton, the in- 
 spired boy, terminated his wretchedness 
 with a pennyworth of poison. But there 
 is a more striking example than these, 
 Sandy. It was but the other day, that 
 our immortal countryman, Robbie Burns 
 — the glorie o' our age — sank, at our very 
 door, neglected and in poverty, wi' a 
 broken heart into the grave. Sandy,' 
 added I, ' never think o' being a poet. If 
 ye attempt it, ye will embark upon an 
 ocean where, for every one that reaches 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 their desired haven, ninety and nine be- 
 come a wreck.' 
 
 On sucli occasions, Sandy used to listen 
 most attentively, an' crack to me very 
 auld-farrantly. Well, sir, it was just 
 after ye went to learn to be a doctor, 
 that 1 resolved to try an' do something 
 to push him forward mysel, as his parents 
 were not in ability ; and I had made ap- 
 plication to a gentleman on his behalf, to 
 use his influence to procure him a bursary 
 in ane o' the universities, when Sandy's 
 faither died, and, puir man, left hardly 
 as meikle behind him as would pay the 
 expenses o' his funeral. This was a 
 death-blow to Sandy's prospects an' my 
 hopes. He wasna seventeen at the time, 
 and his widowed mother had five bairns 
 younger. He was the only ane in the 
 family that she could look up to as a 
 bread-winner. It was about harvest ; an', 
 when the shearing commenced, he went 
 out wi' ithers an' took his place on the 
 rig. As it was his first year, an' he was 
 but a learner, his wages were but sma' ; 
 but, sma' as they were, at the end o' the 
 season he brought them hame, an' my 
 puir blighted scholar laddie thought him- 
 sel a man, when he placed his earnings, 
 to a farthing, in his mother's hand. 
 
 I was sorry for Sandy. It pained me 
 to see one by whom I had had so much 
 credit, and who, I was conscious, would 
 make ane o' the brightest ornaments o' 
 the pu'pit that ever entered it, throwing 
 his learning and his talents awa, an' 
 doomed to be a laboring man. I lost 
 mony a night's sleep on his account ; but 
 I was determined to serve him if I could, 
 and I at last succeeded in getting him 
 appointed tutor in a gentleman's family 
 o' the name o' Crompton, owre in Cum- 
 berland. He was to teach twa bits o' 
 laddies English and arithmetic, Latin 
 and Greek. He wasna out eighteen when 
 he entered upon the duties o' his office ; 
 and great cause had I to be proud o' my 
 scholar, an' satisfied wi'my recommenda- 
 tion ; for, before he had been six months 
 
 in his situation, I received a letter from 
 the gentleman himself, intimating his 
 esteem for Sandy, the great progress his 
 sons had made under his tuition, and ex- 
 pressin' his gratitude to me for recom- 
 mending such a tutor. He was, in con- 
 sequence, kind and generous to my auld 
 scholar, and he doubled his wages, and 
 made him presents beside ; so that Sandy 
 was enabled to assist his mother and his 
 brethren. 
 
 But we ne'er hae a sunny day, though 
 it be the langest day in summer, but, 
 sooner or later, a rainy ane follows it. 
 Now, Mr. Crompton had a daughter 
 about a year younger than Sandy. She 
 wasna' what people would ca' a pretty 
 girl, for I hae seen her ; but she had a 
 sonsy face and intelligent een. She also 
 forsooth, wrote sonnets to the moon, and 
 hymns to the rising sun. She, of a' wo- 
 men, was the most likely to bewitch puir 
 Sandy ; and she did bewitch him. A 
 strong liking sprang up between them. 
 They couldna conceal their partiality for 
 ane anither. He was everything that 
 was perfect in her een, and she was an 
 angel in his. Her name was Ann : and 
 he had celebrated it in every measure, 
 from the hop-and-step line of four sylla- 
 bles to that o' fourteen, which rolleth like 
 the echoing o' a trumpet. 
 
 Now, her faither, though a ceevil an' 
 a kind man, was also a shrewd, sharp- 
 sighted, an' determined man : an' he saw 
 the flutter that had risen up in the breast 
 o' his daughter and the young tutor. So 
 he sent for Sandy, and without seeming 
 to be angry wi' him, or even hinting at 
 the cause — 
 
 * Mr. Rutherford,' said he, ' you are 
 aware that I am highly gratified with the 
 manner in which you have discharged 
 the duties of tutor to my boys ; but I 
 have been thinking that it will be more to 
 their advantage that their education, for 
 the future, be a j)ublic one, and to-mor- 
 row 1 intend sending them to a boarding- 
 school in Yorkshire.' 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 7 
 
 * To-morrow !' said Sandy, mechani- 
 cally, scarce knowing what he said, or 
 where he stood. 
 
 * To-morrow,' added Mr. Crompton ; 
 * and I have sent for you, sir, in order to 
 settle with you respecting your salary.' 
 
 This was bringing the matter home to 
 the business and the bosom of the scholar 
 somewhat suddenly. Little as he was 
 versed in the ways of the world, some- 
 thing like the real cause for the hasty re- 
 moval of his pupils to Yorkshire began 
 to dawn upon his mind. He was stricken 
 with dismay and with great agony, and he 
 longed to pour out his soul upon the gentle 
 bosom of Ann. But she had gone on a 
 visit, with her mother, to a friend in a 
 different part of the country, and Mr. 
 Crompton was to set out with his sons for 
 Yorkshire on the following day. Then, 
 also, would Sandy have to return to the 
 humble roof of his mother. When he 
 retired to pack up his books and his 
 few things, he wrung his hands — yea, 
 there were tears upon his cheeks ; and, 
 in the bitterness of his spirit, he said — 
 
 ' My own sweet Ann ! and shall I 
 never see thee again — never hear thee — 
 never hope !' And he laid his hand 
 upon his forehead and pressed it there, 
 repeating as he did so — ' never ! oh, 
 never !' 
 
 I was surprised beyond measure when 
 Sandy came back to Annan, and, wi' a 
 wo-begone countenance, called upon me. 
 I thought that Mr. Crompton was not a 
 man of the discernment and sagacity that 
 I had given him credit to be ; and I de- 
 sired Sandy not to lay it so sair to heart, 
 for that something else would cast up. 
 But, in a day or two, I received a letter 
 from the gentleman himself, showing me 
 how matters stood, and giving me to 
 "understand the why and the wherefore. 
 ■' ' O the gowk !' said I, ' what business 
 had he to fa' in love, when he had the 
 bairns an' his books to mind.' 
 
 So I determined to rally him a wee 
 thought on the subject, in order to bring 
 
 him back to his senses ; for, when a haf- 
 flins laddie is laboring under the first 
 dizziness o' a bonny lassie's influence, I 
 dinna consider that he is capable o' 
 either seeing, feeling, hearing, or acting 
 wi' the common sense discretion o' a 
 reasonable being. It is a pleasant heat- 
 ing and wandering o' the brain. There- 
 fore, the next time I saw him — 
 
 ' Sandy,' says I, ^ wha was't laid Troy 
 in ashes r' He at first started and stared 
 at me, rather vexed like, but, at last, he 
 answered, wi' a sort o' forced laugh — 
 
 ' A woman.' 
 
 ' A woman, was it ?' says I ; ' an' wha 
 was the cause o' Sandy Rutherford losing 
 his situation as tutor, an' being sent back 
 to Annan .'" 
 
 ' Sirl' said he, and he scowled down 
 his eye-brows, and gied a look at me that 
 would hae spained a ewe's lamb. I saw 
 that he was too far gone, and that his mind 
 was in a state that it would not be safe 
 to trifle wi' ; so I tried him no more 
 upon the subject. 
 
 Weel, as his mother, puir woman, 
 had enough to do, and couldna keep 
 him in idleness, and as there was naething 
 for him in Annan, he went to Edinburgh 
 to see what would cast up, and what his 
 talents and education would do for him 
 there. He had recommendations from 
 several gentlemen, and also from myself. 
 But month after month passed on, and 
 he was like to hear of nothing. His 
 mother was becoming extremely unhap- 
 py on his account ; and the more so be- 
 cause he had given up writing, which 
 astonished me a great deal, for I could 
 not divine the cause of such conduct as 
 not to write to his own mother, to say 
 that he was well or what he was doinor • 
 and I was the more surprised at it, be- 
 cause of the excellent opinion I had en- 
 tertained of his character and disposition. 
 However, I think it would be about six 
 months after he had left, I received a let- 
 ter from him ; and, as that letter is of 
 importance in giving you an account of 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 his history, I shall just step along to the 
 school for it, where I have it carefully 
 placed in my desk, and shall bring 
 it and any other papers that I think 
 may be necessary in giving you an ac- 
 count of your other schoolfellows." 
 
 Thus saying, Dominie Grierson, tak- 
 ing up his three-cornered hat and silver- 
 mounted walking-stick, stalked out of the 
 room. And, as people generally like to 
 have some idea of the sort of person who 
 is telling them a story, I shall here de- 
 scribe to them the appearance of Mr. 
 Grierson. He was a fine-looking old 
 man, about five feet nine inches high — 
 his ao-e mi^ht be about threescore and 
 fifteen, and he was a bachelor. His hair 
 was white as the driven snow, yet as 
 fresh and thick as though he had been 
 but thirty. His face was pale. He could 
 not properly be called corpulent, but his 
 person had an inclination that way. His 
 shoes were fastened with large silver buc- 
 kles ; he wore a pair of the finest black 
 lambs'-wool stockings ; breeches of the 
 same color, fastened at the knees by 
 buckles, similar to those in his shoes. 
 His coat and waistcoat were also black, 
 and both were exceedingly capacious ; for 
 the former, with its broad skirts, which 
 descended almost to his heels, would have 
 made a greatcoat now-a-days ; and in the 
 kingly flaps of the latter, which defended 
 his loins, was cloth enough and to spare 
 to have made a modern vest. This, with 
 the broad-brimmed, round-crowned, three- 
 cornered hat, already referred to, a pair 
 of spectacles, and the silver-mounted cane, 
 completed the outward appearance of 
 Dominie Grierson, with the exception of 
 his cambric handkerchief, which was 
 whiter than his own locks, and did credit 
 to the cleanliness of his housekeeper, and 
 her skill as a laundress. 
 
 In a few moments he returned, with 
 Sandy's letter and other papers in his 
 hand, and helping himself to another glass 
 of wine, he rubbed the glass of his spec- 
 tacles with his handkerchief, and said — 
 
 "Now, doctor, here is poor Sandy's 
 letter ; listen and ye shall hear it. 
 
 ' Edinburgh^ June 10, 17 — . 
 * Honored Sir, — I fear that, on account 
 of my not having written to you, you will, 
 ere now, have accused me of ingratitude ; 
 and when I tell you that, until the other 
 day, I have not for months even written to 
 my mother, you may think me undutifol 
 as well as ungrateful. But my own breast 
 holds me guiltless of both. When I ar- 
 rived here I met with nothing but disap- 
 pointments, and those I found at every 
 hand. For many weeks I walked the streets 
 of this city in despair, hopeless as a fallen 
 angel. I was hungry, and no one gave 
 me to eat ; but they knew not that I was 
 in want. Keen misery held me in its 
 grasp — ruin caressed me, and laughed at 
 its plaything, I will not pain you by de- 
 tailing a catalogue of the privations 1 
 endured, and which none but those who 
 have felt and fathomed the depths of 
 misery, can imagine. Through your letter 
 of recommendation, I was engaged to give 
 private lessons to two pupils, but the 
 salary was small, and that was only to be 
 paid quarterly. While I was teaching 
 them, I was starving, living on a penny 
 a-day. But this was not all. I was fre- 
 quently without a lodging ; and being 
 expelled from one for lack of the means 
 of paying for it, it was many days before 
 I could venture to inquire for another. 
 My lodging was on a common stair, or on 
 the bare sides of the Calton ; and my 
 clothes, from exposure to the weather, 
 became unsightly. They were no longer 
 fitting garments for one who gave lessons 
 in a fashionable family. For several days 
 I observed the eyes of the lady of the house 
 where I taught, fixed with a most super- 
 cilious and scrutinizing expression upon 
 my shabby and unfortunate coat. I saw 
 and felt that she was weisihins; the shabbi- 
 ness of my garments against my qualifica- 
 tions, and I trembled for the consequence. 
 In a short time, my worst fears were 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 realized ; for, one day, calling as usual, 
 instead of being shown into a small parlor, 
 where I gave my lessons, the man-servant, 
 who opened the door, permitted me to 
 stand in the lobby, and, in two minutes, 
 returned with two guineas upon a small 
 silver-plate, intimating, as he held them 
 before me, that ' the services of Mr. 
 Rutherford were no longer required,' 
 The sight of the two guineas took away 
 the bitterness and mortification of the 
 abrupt dismissal. I pocketed them, and 
 engaged a lodging ; and never, until that 
 aight, did I know or feel the exquisite 
 luxury of a deep, dreamless sleep. It was 
 bathing in Lethe, and rising refreshed, 
 having no consciousness, -save the grateful 
 feeling of the cooling waters of forgetful- 
 ness around you. Having, some weeks 
 ago, translated an old deed, which was 
 written in Latin, for a gentleman who is 
 what is called an inn-door advocate, and 
 who has an extensive practice, he has been 
 pleased to take me into his office, and has 
 fixed on me a liberal salary. He advises 
 me to push my way to the bar, and kindly 
 promises his assistance. I shall follow his 
 advice, and I despair not but I may one 
 day solicit the hand of the only woman I 
 ever have loved, or can love, from her 
 father, as his equal. I am, Sir, yours, 
 indebtedly, 
 
 * Alex. Rutherford.' 
 
 Now, sir (continued the dominie), about 
 three years after I had received this letter, 
 my old scholar was called to the bar, and 
 a brilliant first appearance he made. 
 Bench, bar, and jury, were lost in wonder 
 at the power o' his eloquence. A De- 
 mosthenes had risen up amongst them. 
 The half o' Edinburgh spoke o' naething 
 but the young advocate. But it was on 
 the very day that he made his first ap- 
 pearance as a pleader, that I received a 
 letter from Mr. Crompton, begging to 
 know if I could gie him ony information 
 respecting the old tutor o' his family, and 
 stating, in the language o' a broken-hearted 
 
 man, that his only daughter was then upon 
 her deathbed, and that before she died she 
 begged she might be permitted to see and 
 to speak with Alexander Rutherford. I 
 enclosed the letter, and sent it off to the 
 young advocate. He was sitting at a 
 dinner party, receiving the homage of 
 beauty, and the congratulations of learned 
 men, when the fatal letter was put into his 
 hands. He broke the seal — his hands 
 shook as he read — his cheeks grew pale — 
 and large drops of sweat burst upon his 
 brow. He rose from the table. He 
 scarce knew what he did. But, within 
 half-an-hour he was posting on his way to 
 Cumberland. He reached the house, her 
 parents received him with tears, and he 
 was conducted into the room where the 
 dying maiden lay. She knew his voice as 
 lie approached. 
 
 ' He is come ! — he is come ! — he loves 
 me still !' cried the poor thing, endeavor- 
 ing to raise herself upon her elbow. 
 
 Sandy approached the bedside — he 
 burst into tears — he bent down and kissed 
 her pale and wasted cheeks, over which 
 death seemed already to have cast its 
 shadow. 
 
 ' Ann ! my beloved Ann !' said he, and 
 he took her hand in his, and pressed it to 
 his lips ; ' do not leave me ; we shall yet 
 be happy ." 
 
 Her eyes brightened for a moment — in 
 them joy struggled with death, and the 
 contest was unequal. From the day that 
 he had been sent from her father's house, 
 she had withered away as a tender flower 
 that is transplanted to an unkindly soil. 
 She desired that they would lift her up, 
 and she placed her hand upon his shoulder, 
 and, gazing anxiously in his face, said — 
 
 ^ And Alexander still loves me — even 
 in death !' 
 
 ' Yes, dearest — ^yes !' he replied. But 
 she had scarce heard his answer, and re- 
 turned it with a smile of happiness, when 
 her head sank upon his bosom, and a deep 
 sigh escaped from hers. It was her last. 
 Her soul seemed only to have lingered till 
 
10 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 her eyes might look on him. She was 
 removed a corpse from his breast ; but on 
 that breast the weight of death was still 
 left. He became melancholy — his am- 
 bition died — she seemed to have been the 
 only object that stimulated him to pursue 
 fame and to seek for fortune. In intense 
 study he sought to forget his grief— or 
 rather he made them companions — till his 
 health broke under them ; and, in the 
 thirtieth year of his age, died one who 
 possessed talents and learning that would 
 have adorned his country, and rendered 
 his name immortal. Such su-, is the brief 
 history o' yer auld class-fellow, Solitary 
 Sandy. 
 
 In the history o' 
 
 GLAIKIT WILLIE, 
 
 (continued Mr. Griei-son), the only thing 
 remarkable is, that he has been as fortu- 
 nate a man as he was a thochtless laddie. 
 After leaving the school, he flung his 
 Greek and Latin aside, and that was easily 
 done, for it was but little that he ever 
 learned, and less that he remembered, for 
 he paid so little attention to onything he 
 did, that what he got by heart one day he 
 forgot the next. In spite o' the remon- 
 strances o' his friends, naething would 
 baud Willie but he would be a sailor. 
 Weel, he was put on board o' an Ameri- 
 can trader, and for several years there 
 was naething heard o' concerning him, but 
 accidents that had happened him, and all 
 through his glaikitness. Sometimes he 
 was fa'ing owre a boat and was mostly 
 drowned ; and, at other times, we heard o' 
 him fa'ing headlong into the ship's hold; 
 ance o' his tumblins; overboard in the 
 middle o' the great Atlantic ; and, at last, 
 o' his fa'ing from the mast upon the deck, 
 and havino; his le^re broken. It was the 
 luckiest thing that ever happened him. It 
 brought him to think, and gied him leisure 
 to do it ; he was laid up for twelve weeks, 
 and, during part o' the time, he applied 
 himself to navigation, in the elements o' 
 
 which science I had instructed him. Soon 
 after his recovery, he got the command o' 
 a vessel, and was very fortunate, and, for 
 several years, he has been sole owner of a 
 number of vessels, and is reputed to be 
 very rich. He also married weel, as the 
 phrase runs, for the woman had a vast o' 
 money, only she was — a mulatto. That, 
 sir, is a' I ken concernins; William Arm- 
 strong, or, as ye ca'ed him, Glaikit Willie ; 
 for he was a callant that was so thochtless 
 when under my care, that he never inter- 
 ested me a great deal. And noo, sir, I 
 shall gie ye a' the particulars I know con- 
 cerning the fate o' 
 
 VENTURESOME JAMIE. 
 
 Ye will remember him best o' ony o' 
 them, I reckon ; for even when ye were 
 baith bits o' callants, there was a sort o' 
 rivalship between ye for the affections o' 
 bonnie Katie Alison, the loveliest lassie 
 that ever I had at my school. I hae 
 frequently observed the looks o' jealousy 
 that used to pass between ye when she 
 seemed to show mair kindness to ane than 
 anither ; and when ye little thocht I saw 
 ye, I hae noticed ane o' ye pushing oranges 
 into her hand, and anither sweeties. 
 When she got a bit comb, too, to fasten 
 up her gowden hair, I weel divined whose 
 pennies had purchased it — for they were 
 yours, doctor. I remember, also, hoo ye 
 was aye a greater favorite wi' her than 
 Jamie, and hoo he challenged ye to fecht 
 him for her affections, and owrecam' ye in 
 the battle, and sent ye to the school next 
 day wi' yer face a' disfigm-ed — and I, as 
 in duty bound, gied each o' ye a heartier 
 threshin' than ye had gien ane anither. 
 Katie hung her head a' the time, and 
 when she looked up, a tear was rowin' in 
 her bonnie blue een. But ye left the 
 school and the country-side, when ye was 
 little mair than sevTenteen ; and the next 
 thing that we heard o' ye was that ye had 
 gone oot to India about three years after- 
 wards. Yer departure evidently removed 
 
Ir 
 
 THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 11 
 
 a load from Jamie's breast. He fellowed 
 Katie like her shadow, though with but 
 little success, as far as I could perceive, 
 and as it was generally given out. 
 
 But, ye must remember, in his case, 
 the name o' Ventures-om^ Jamie was 
 well applied. Never in my born days 
 did I know siich a caliant. He wo'ald 
 have climbed the highest trees as though 
 he had been speelin' owre a common 
 yet'u, and swung himsei by the heels frae 
 their tapmost branches. Oh, he was a 
 terrible laddie 1 When I hae seen ye a' 
 bathing in the river, sometimes I used to 
 tremble for him. He was a perfect am- 
 phibious animal. 1 have seen him dive 
 from a height o' twenty or thirty feet, 
 and remain under the water till I almost 
 lost my breath wi' anxiety for his upris- 
 ing ; and then he would have risen at as 
 many yards distant from the place where 
 he had dived. I recollect o' hearing 
 o' his permitting himsei to be suspend- 
 ed owre a precipice aboon a hundred feet 
 high, wi' a rope fastened round his ox- 
 ters, and three laddies like himsei hand- 
 ing on by the ither end o't — and this was 
 dune merely to harry the nest o' a water- 
 wagtail. Had the screams o' the cal- 
 lants, who fund him owre heavy for 
 them, and that they were unable to draw 
 him up again, not brought some plough- 
 men to their assistance, he must have 
 been precipitated into eternity. How- 
 ever, as I intended to say, it was shortly 
 after the news arrived o' your having 
 sailed for India, that a fire broke out in 
 the dead o' night in a house occupied b)y 
 Katie Alison's father. Never shall I 
 forget the uproar and consternation o' 
 that terrible night. There was not a 
 countenance in the town but was pale wi' 
 terror. The flames roared and rag-ed 
 from every window, and were visible 
 through some parts in the roof. The 
 great black clouds o' smoke seemed rush- 
 ing from the crater of a volcano. The 
 floors o' the second story were falling, 
 and crashing, and crackling, and great 
 
 burning sparks, some o' them as big as a 
 man's hand, were rising in thousands and 
 tens o' thousands from the flaming ruins, 
 and were driven by the wind, like a 
 shower o' fire, across the heavens. It 
 was the most fearsome sight I had ever 
 beheld. But this was not the worst o't ; 
 for, at a window in the third story, 
 which was the only one in the house 
 from which the flames were not bursting, 
 stood bonny Katie xMison, wringing her 
 hands and screaming for assistance, 
 while her gowden hair fell upon her 
 shouthers, and her cries were heard 
 aboon the raging o' the conflagration. I 
 heard her crying distinctly — ' oMy fa- 
 ther ! — my father ! — will nobody save my 
 father ! ' for he lay ill of a fever in the 
 room where she was, and was unconscious 
 of his situation. But there was none to 
 render them assistance. At times, the 
 flames and the smoke, issuing from the 
 windows below, concealed her from the 
 eyes of the multitude. Several had at- 
 tempted her rescue, but all of them had 
 been forced to retreat, and some of them 
 scorched fearfully ; for in many places 
 the stairs had given way, and the flames 
 were bursting on every side. They were 
 attempting to throw up a rope to her as- 
 sistance — for the flames issued so fierce- 
 ly from the lower windows, that, though 
 a ladder had been raised, no man could 
 have ascended it — when, at that moment, 
 my old scholar, James Johnstone (Ven- 
 turesome Jamie, indeed !) arrived. He 
 heard the cries o' Katie — he beheld her 
 hands outstretched for help — ' Let me 
 past ! — let me past ! — ye cowards ! ye 
 cowards !' cried he, as he eagerly forced 
 his way through the crowd. He rushed 
 into the door, from which the dense 
 smoke and the sparks were issuing as 
 from a great furnace. There was a 
 thrill o' horror through the crowd, for 
 they kenned his character, and they 
 kenned also his fondness for Katie — and 
 no one expected to see him in life again. 
 But, in less than ten seconds from his 
 
32 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS, 
 
 rushing in at the door, he was seen to 
 spring forward to the window where 
 Katie stood — he flung his arm round her 
 waist, and, in an instant, both disap- 
 peared — but, within a quarter of a 
 minute, he rushed out at the street door, 
 through the black smoke and the thick 
 sparks, wi' the bonny creature that he 
 adored in his arms. doctor, had ye 
 heard the shout that burst frae the mul- 
 titude ! — there was not one amono;st 
 them at that moment that couldna have 
 hugged Jamie to his heart. His hands 
 were sore burned, and on several places 
 his clothes were on fire. Katie was but 
 little hurt ; but, on finding herself on the 
 street, she cast an anxious and despair- 
 ing look towards the window from which 
 she had been snatched, and again wring- 
 ing her hands, exclaimed, in accents of 
 bitterness that go through my heart to 
 this day — 
 
 ' My father ! — oh, my father ! — is 
 there no help for him ? — shall my father 
 perish P 
 
 ' The rope ! — gie me the rope !' cried 
 Jamie. He snatched it from the hand 
 of a bystander, and again rushed into the 
 smoking ruins. The consternation of 
 the crowd become greater, and their anx- 
 iety more intense than before. Full 
 three minutes passed, and nothing was 
 seen of him. The crowded street be- 
 came as silent as death ; even those who 
 were runnins; backward and forward car- 
 rying water, for a time stood still. The 
 suspense was agonizing. At length he 
 appeared at the window, with the sick 
 man wrapt up in the bedclothes, and 
 holding him to his side with his right 
 arm around him. The hope and fear of 
 the people became indescribable. Never 
 did I witness such a scene ! — never may 
 I witness such a^ain ! Havinsr fastened 
 one end of the rope to the bed, he flung 
 the other from the window to the street; 
 and, grasping it with his left hand, he 
 drew himself out at the window, with 
 Katie's faither in his arm, and, crossing 
 
 his feet around the rope, he slid down to 
 the street, bearing his burden with him I 
 Then, sir^ the congratulations o' the 
 multitude were unbounded. Every one 
 was anxious to shake him by the hand ; 
 but, what with the burning his ri^ht 
 hand had sustained, and the worse than 
 burning his left hand had sufi"ered wi' 
 the sliding down a rope frae a third story 
 wi' a man under his arm, I may say thatf 
 my venturesome and gallant auld scholar 
 hadna a hand to shake. 
 
 Ye canna be surprised to hear— 
 (and, at the time o' life ye've arrived at, 
 ye '11 be no longer jealous — besides, during 
 dinner, T think ye spoke o' having a wife 
 and family) — 1 say, therefore, doctor, 
 that ye'll neither be jealous nor surprised 
 to hear that from that day Katie's dry- 
 ness to Jamie melted down. Moreover, 
 as ye had gane out to India, where ye 
 would be mair likely to look after siller 
 than think o' a wife, and as I understand 
 ye had dropped correspondence for some 
 length o' time, ye couldna think yoursel 
 in ony way slighted. Now, folk say that 
 ^ nineteen nay-says are half a yes.' For 
 my part (and my age is approaching the 
 heels of the patriarchs), I never put it in 
 the power o' woman born to say JVo to 
 me. But, as I have heard and believe, 
 Katie had said iVb to Jamie before the 
 fire, not only nineteen times, but thirty- 
 eisht times twice told, and he found 
 seventy-six (which is about my age) nae 
 nearer a yea than the first nay. And 
 folk said it was a' on account o' a foolish 
 passion for the doctor laddie that had 
 gane abroad. But Katie was a kind, 
 gratefu' lassie. She couldna look wi' 
 eauldness upon the man that had not only 
 saved her life, but her father's also ; and 
 I ought to have informed you, that, 
 within two minutes from the time of her 
 father's being snatched from the room 
 where he lay, the floor fell in, and the 
 flames burst from the window where 
 Katie had been standing a few minutes 
 before. 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 13 
 
 Her father recovered from the fever, 
 but he died within six months after the 
 fire, and left her a portionless orphan, 
 or what was next door to it. Jamie 
 urged her to make him happy, and at 
 last she consented, and they were mar- 
 ried. But ye remember that his parents 
 were in affluent circumstances ; they 
 thought he had demeaned himself hy his 
 marriage, and they shut their door upon 
 Mm, and disowned him a'thegither. As 
 he was his father's heir, he was brought 
 up to no calling or business whatsoever ; 
 and, when the auld man not only vowed 
 to cut him off wi' a shilling, on account 
 o' his marriage, but absolutely got his 
 will altered accordingly, what did the 
 silly lad do, but, in desperation, list into 
 a regiment that was gaun' abroad. ' The 
 laddie has done it in a fit o' passion,' 
 said I, ' and what will become o' poor 
 Katie ?' Weel, although it was said that 
 the lassie never had ony particular affec- 
 tion for him, but Just married him out o' 
 gratitude, and although several genteel 
 families in the neighborhood offered her 
 respectable and comfortable situations 
 (for «he was universally liked), yet the 
 strange creature preferred to follow the 
 hard fortunes o' Jamie, who had been 
 
 (disowned on her account, and she im- 
 plored the G:Seers o' the regiment to be 
 allowed to accompany him. It is possible 
 that they were interested with her 
 appearance, and what they had heard of 
 his connection, and the manner in which 
 he had been treated, for they granted 
 her request ; and, about a month after he 
 enlisted, the regiment marched from 
 Carlisle, and Katie accompanied her 
 husband. They went abroad somewhere ; 
 to the East or West Indies, I believe ; 
 biit, from that day to this, I have never 
 heard a word concerning either the one 
 or the other, or whether they be living or 
 not. All I know is, that the aiild man 
 died within two years after his son had 
 become a soldier, and, keeping his 
 resentment to his latest breath, actually 
 
 left his property to a brother's son. And 
 that, sir, is all that I know of Venture- 
 some Jamie, and your old sweetheart, 
 Katie." 
 
 The doctor looked thoughtful— exceed- 
 ingly thoughtful ; and the auld dominie, 
 acquiring additional loquacity as he went 
 on, poured out another glass, and added— 
 
 ^^ But come, doctor, we will drink a 
 bumper, ' for auld langsyne,' to the lassie 
 with the gowden locks, be she dead or 
 living." 
 
 " VTith my whole heart and soul," 
 replied the doctor impassionedly ; and, 
 pouring out a glass, he drained it to the 
 dregs. 
 
 ^' The auld feeling is not quenched 
 yet, doctor," said the venerable teacher, 
 " and I am sorry for it ; for, had 1 known, 
 I would have spoken more guardedly. 
 But I will proceed to gie ye an account 
 o' the rest o' your class-fellows, and I 
 will do it briefly. There was Walter 
 Fairbairn, who went amongst ye hy the 
 name o' 
 
 CAUTIOUS WATTY, 
 
 H^e was the queerest laddie that ever I 
 had at my school. He had neither talent 
 nor cleverness ; but he made up for both, 
 and I may say more than made up for 
 both, by method and application. Ye 
 would have said that nature had been in 
 a miserly humor when it made his 
 brains ; but, if it had been niggardly in 
 the quantity, it certainly had spared no 
 pains in placing them properly. He was 
 the very reverse o' Solitary Sandy. I 
 never could get Watty to scan a line or 
 construe a sentence right in my days. 
 He did not seem to understaad the 
 nature o' words — or, at least, in so far 
 as applied to sentiment, idea, or fine 
 writing. Figures were Watty's alphabet ; 
 and, from his earliest yeai-s, pounds, 
 shillings, and pence, were the syllables by 
 which he Joined them together. The 
 abstruser points of mathematics were 
 
u 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 beyond his intellect ; but he seemed to 
 have a liking for the certmnty of the 
 science, and h-e manifested a wish to 
 master it. My housekeeper that then 
 was, has informed me^ that, when a' the 
 rest o' ye wad hae been selling your 
 copies as waste paper^ for taffy^ or what 
 some ca' treack-candy^ Watty would only 
 part wi' his to the paper purchaser for 
 money down ; and when ony o' ye took a 
 greenin' for the sweet things o' the shop- 
 keeper, without a halfpenny to purchase 
 one; Watty woiild volunteer to lend ye 
 the money until a certain day, upon con- 
 dition that ye would then pay him a 
 penny for the loan of his halfpenny. But 
 he exhibited a grand trait o' this dispo- 
 sition when he cam' to learn the rule o' 
 Compound Interest. Indeed, 1 need not 
 say he learned it, for he literally devoured 
 it. He wrought every question in Dil- 
 worth's Rule within two days ; and, when 
 he had finished it (for he seldom had hi& 
 slate away from m-y face, and I was half 
 tired wi' saying to him, ' That will do^ 
 sir,') he came up to my desk, and says 
 he, wi' a face as earnest as a judge — 
 
 ' May I go through this rule again, sir V 
 
 ' I think ye understand it, Watty,' 
 said 1, rather significantly, 
 
 ^ But I would like to be perfect in it^ 
 sir,' answered he, 
 
 ' Then go through it again, Watty,' 
 said I, ' and I have nae doubt but ye will 
 h^ perfect in it very qui&kly.' 
 
 I said this wi' a degree o' irony which 
 I was not then, and which I am not now, 
 in the habit of eshibiting before my 
 scholars ; but, from what I had observed 
 and heard o' him, it betrayed to me a 
 trait in human nature that literally dis- 
 gusted me. But I have bo pleasm'e in 
 dwelling upon his histm-y. Shortly after 
 leaving the school, he was sent tpp to 
 London to an uncle ; and, as his parents 
 had the means of setting Hm up in the 
 world, he was there to make choice o' a 
 profession. After looking abont the 
 great city for a time, it was the choice 
 
 and pleasure o^ Cautions Watty to be 
 bound as an apprentice to a pawnbroker. 
 He afterwards commenced business for 
 himself, and every day in his life indulg- 
 ing in his favorite study, Compound 
 Interest, and, as far as he durst, putting 
 it in practice, be, in a short time, became- 
 rich. But, as his STibstance increased, 
 be did not confine himself to- portable 
 articles, or such things as are usually 
 taken in pledge by the members of his 
 profession ; but he took estates iftpledgey, 
 receiving the title deeds as his security,, 
 and in such cases he did exact his Com- 
 pound Interest to the last farthing to 
 which he could stretch it. He neither 
 knew the meaning of generosity nor 
 mercy. Shakspeare's beautiful apos- 
 trophe to the latter god4ike attribute in 
 the Mercha7:)t of Venice., would have been 
 flat nonsense in the etstima-tion of Watty, 
 He had but one answer to every argu- 
 ment and to every case, and which helaicE 
 to hi& conscience in all hi« transactions,, 
 (if he had a conscience), and that was — 
 'A bargain's a bargain!' This was his 
 ten times repeated phrase every day. It 
 was the doctrine b-y which he swore ; and 
 Shylock would have died wi' envy to 
 have seen Watty exacting his ' pound o'' 
 flesh.'' I have only to tell ye that he haa- 
 been twice married. The first time was to 
 a widow four years older than his mother,. 
 
 wi' whom he 
 
 got 
 
 ten thousand. The 
 
 second time was to a maiden lady who 
 had been a coquette and a flirt in her 
 day, but who, when the deep crow-feet 
 upon her brow began to reflect sermon-s 
 from her looking-glass, became a patro- 
 niser of piety and religio^ls instit'Ations. 
 Watty heard o' her fortune, and o' her 
 disposition and habits. He turned aa 
 Episcopalian because she was one. He- 
 became a sitter and a regular attender in 
 the same pew in the chureb. He began 
 his courtship by openisig the pew door to 
 her when he saw hsr coming, before the 
 sexton reached it. He next sought her 
 out the services for the day in the prayer- 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 15 
 
 book — he had it always open, and ready 
 to put in her hand. He dusted the 
 cushion on which she was to sit, with his 
 handkerchief, as she entered the pew. He, 
 in short, shewed her a hundred little 
 pious attentions. The sensibility of the 
 converted flirt was aifected by them. At 
 lensith he offered her his arm from the 
 pew to the hackney coach or sedan-chair 
 which waited for her at the church door ; 
 and, eventually, he led her to the altar in 
 the seventy-third year of her age ; when, 
 to use his own words, he married her 
 thirty thousand pounds, and took the old 
 woman before the minister as a witness. 
 Such, sir, is all I know concerning Cau- 
 tious Watty. 
 
 ^' The next o' your auld class-mates 
 that I have to notice (continued Mr. 
 Grierson) , is 
 
 LEETN' PETER, 
 
 Peter Murray was the cause o' mair 
 grief to me than ony scholar that ever 
 was at my school. He could not tell a 
 story the same way in which he heard it, 
 or give ye a direct answer to a positive 
 question, had it been to save his life, I 
 sometimes was at a loss whether to attri- 
 bute his grievous propensity to a defect 
 ©' memory, a preponderance o' imagina- 
 tion over baith memory and judgment, or 
 to the natural depravity o' his heart, and 
 the force o' abominable habits early ac- 
 quired. Certain it is, that all the thrash- 
 iag that I could thrash, I couldna get 
 the laddie to speak the truth. His pa- 
 rents were perpetually coming to me to 
 lick him soundly for this lie and the 
 other lie ; a»nd I did lick him, until I saw 
 that bodily punishment was of no effect. 
 Moral means were to be tried, and I did 
 try them. I tried to shame him out o' it. 
 I reasoned wi' him. I showed him the 
 folly and the enormity o' his offence, and 
 also pointed out its consequences — but I 
 might as weel hae spoken to the stane in 
 the wa'. He was Lcein' Peter still. Af- 
 
 ter he left me, he was a while wi"" a gro- 
 cer, and a while wi' a haberdasher, and 
 then he went to a painter, and after that 
 he was admitted into a writer's office ; 
 but, one after another, they had to turn 
 him away, and a' on account o' his un- 
 conquerable habit o' uttering falsehoods. 
 His character became so well known, 
 that nobody about th-e place would take 
 him to be anything. He was a sad 
 heart-break to his parents, and they were 
 as decent people as ye could meet wi'. 
 But, as they had respectable connexions, 
 they got him into some situation about 
 Edinburgh, where his character and his 
 failings were unknown. But it was alto- 
 gether useless. He was turned out of 
 one situation after another, and a' on 
 account of his incurable and dangerous 
 habit, until his friends could do no more 
 for him. Noo, doctor, I dare say ye may 
 have observed, that a confirmed drunk- 
 ard, rather than want drink, will steal to 
 procure it — and, as sure as that is the 
 case, tak my word for it, that, in nine 
 cases out of ten, he who begins by being 
 a habitual liar, will end in being a thief. 
 Such was the case wi' Leein' Peter. After 
 being disgraced and turned from one 
 situation after anither, he at last was 
 caught in the act ©'purloining his master's 
 property and cast into prison. He broke 
 his mother's heart, and covered his 
 father's grey hairs wi' shame ; and he 
 sank from one state o' degradation to 
 another, till now, I believe, he is ane o' 
 those prowlers and pests o' society, who 
 are to be found in every large town, and 
 who live naebody can tell how, but every 
 one can tell that it cannot be honestly. 
 Such, sir, has been the fate o' Leein' 
 Peter. 
 
 There is only another o' your book- 
 mates that I have to make mention o,' 
 and that is John Mathewson, or 
 
 JOCK THE DUNCE, 
 
 Many a score o' times hae I said that 
 
16 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Jock's head was as impervious to learnin' 
 as a nether mill-stane. It would hae 
 been as easy to hae driven Mensuration 
 into the head o' an ox, as instruction into 
 the brain o' Jock Mathewson. He was a 
 dunce. I fleeched him, and I coaxed 
 him, and I endeavored to divert him to 
 get him to learn, and T kicked him, and I 
 cuffed him ; but I might as weel hae 
 kicked my heel upon the floor, or fleeched 
 the fireplace. Jock was knowledge-proof. 
 All my efforts were o' no avail. I could 
 get him to learn nothing, and to compre- 
 hend nothing. Often I had half made 
 up my mind to turn him away from the 
 school, for I saw that I never would have 
 any credit by the blockhead. But what 
 was most annoying was, that here was his 
 mother at me, every hand-awhile, say- 
 ins; — 
 
 ' Mr. Grierson, I'm really surprised at 
 ye. My son, John, is not comin' on ava. 
 1 really wush ye wad tak mair pains wi' 
 him. It is an unco thing to be o' payin' 
 you guid money, and the laddie to be 
 getting nae guid for it. I wad hae ye to 
 understand, that his faither doesna make 
 his money sae easily — no by sitting on a 
 seat, or walking up and down a room, as 
 ye do. There's such a ane's son awa into 
 the Latin, nae less, I understand, and my 
 John no out o' the Testament. But, de- 
 pend upon it, Mr. Grierson, if ye dinna 
 try to do something wi' him, I maun tak 
 him awa from your school, and that is 
 the short and the lang o't.' 
 
 ' Do sae, ma'am,' said I, * and I'll 
 thank ye. Mercy me ! it's a bonny thing, 
 indeed ! — do ye suppose that I had the 
 makin o' your son .'' If nature has form- 
 ed his head out o' a whin-stane, can I 
 transform it into marble ? Your son 
 would try the patience o' Job — his head 
 is thicker than a door-post. I can mak 
 naething o' him. I would sooner teach 
 a hundred than be troubled wi' him.' 
 
 ' Hundred here, hundred there ! ' said 
 she, in a tift ; ' but it's a hard matter, 
 Grierson, or his father and me to be 
 
 payin' ye money for naething ; an' if ye 
 dinna try to mak something o' him, I'll 
 tak him frae your school, an' that will be 
 baith seen an' heard tell o' I ' 
 
 So saying, away she would drive, toss- 
 ing her head wi' the airs o' my lady. 
 Ye canna conceive, sir, what a teacher 
 has to put up wi'. Thomson says — 
 
 ' Delig-htfal task 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot ! ' 
 
 I wish to goodness he had tried it, and a 
 month's specimen o' its delights would 
 have surfeited him, and instead o' what 
 he has written, he would have said — 
 
 Degrading thought 
 To be each snivelling blockhead's parent's slave f 
 
 Now, ye'll remember that Jock was 
 perpetually sniftering and gaping wi' 
 his mouth, or even sucking his thumb 
 like an idiot. There was nae keeping 
 the animal cleanly, touch less instructing 
 him ; and then, if he had the book in 
 his hand, there he sat staring owre it, wi' 
 a look as vacant and stupid as a tortoise. 
 Or, if he had the slate before him, there 
 was he drawing scores on't, or amusing 
 himself wi' twirling and twisting the 
 pencil in the string through the frame. 
 Never had I such a lump o' stupidity 
 within the walls o' my school. 
 
 After his leaving me, he was put as an 
 apprentice to a bookseller. I thought 
 of all the callings under the sun, that 
 which had been chosen for him was the 
 least suited to a person o' his capacity. 
 But — would ye believe it, sir ? — Jock 
 surprised us a'. He fairly turned the 
 corner on a' my calculations. When he 
 began to look after the lassies, ho also 
 began to ^' smart up." He came to my 
 night-school, when he would be about 
 eighteen, and I was perfectly astonished 
 at the change that had taken place, even 
 in the appearance o' the callant. His 
 very nose, which had always been so 
 stuffed and thick-like, was now an orna- 
 ment to his face. He had become alto- 
 gether a lively, fine-looking lad ; and, 
 
THE DOMINIE'S CLASS. 
 
 17 
 
 more marvellous still, his whole heart's 
 desire seemed to be to learn ; and he did 
 learn with a rapidity that both aston- 
 ished and delighted me. I actually 
 thought the instructions which I had en- 
 deavored to instil into him for years, 
 and apparently without effect, had been 
 lying dormant, as it were, in the cham- 
 bers o' his brain, like a cuckoo in winter 
 ' — that they had been sealed up as fast as 
 I imparted them, by some cause that I 
 did not comprehend, and that now they 
 had got vent, and were issuing out in 
 rapid and vigorous strength, like a per- 
 son refreshed after a sleep. 
 
 After he had been two years at the 
 night-school, so far from considering him 
 a dunce, I resrarded him as an amazino- 
 clever lad. From the instance I had had 
 in him, I began to perceive that precocity 
 o' intellect was nae proof o' its power. 
 Well, shortly after the time I am speak- 
 ing o', he left Annan for Glasgow, and, 
 after being a year or twa there, he com- 
 menced business on his own account. I 
 may safely say, that never man was more 
 fortunate. But, as his means increased, 
 he did not confine himself to the busi- 
 ness in which he had been brought up, 
 but he became an extensive ship-owner ; 
 he also became a partner in a cotton-mill 
 concern. He was elected a member of 
 the town council, and was distinguished 
 as a leading member and orator of the 
 guild. Eventually, he rose to be one 
 of the city magistrates. He is now 
 also an extensive landed proprietor ; and 
 I even hear it affirmed, that it is in con- 
 templation to put him in nomination for 
 some place or another at the next elec- 
 tion. Such things happen, doctor — and 
 wha would hae thocht it o' Jock the 
 Dunce ? 
 
 Now, sir (added the dominie), so far 
 as I have been able, I have given you the 
 history o' your class-fellows. Concern- 
 ing you, doctor, I have known less and 
 heard less than o' any o' them. You 
 being so long away, and your immediate 
 
 VOL. TT a 
 
 relations about here being dead, so that 
 ye have dropped correspondence, I have 
 heard nothing concerning ye ; and I have 
 often been sorry on that account ; for, 
 believe me, doctor — (here the doctor 
 pushed the bottle to him, and the old 
 man, helping himself to another glass, 
 and drinking it, again continued) — I say, 
 believe me, doctor, that I never had two 
 scholars under my care, o' whose talents 
 I had greater opinion than o' Solitary 
 Sandy and yoursel ; and it has often 
 vexed me that I could hearnaething con- 
 corning ye, or whether you were dead or 
 living. Now, sir, if ye'll favor me wi' 
 an account o' your history, from the time 
 o' your going out to India, your auld 
 dominie will be much obliged to ye ; for 
 I like to hear concerning ye all, as though 
 ye had been my ain bairns." 
 
 '^ There is little of interest, sir," said 
 the doctor ; " but, so far as there is any, 
 your wish shall be gratified." And he 
 proceeded as is hereafter written. 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 *' In your history, sir, of Venturesome 
 Jamie, which you are unable to finish, 
 you mentioned the rivalry that existed 
 between him and me, for the afi"ections o' 
 bonny Kattie Alison. James was a 
 noble fellow. I am not ashamed that I 
 had such a rival. In our youth I esteem- 
 ed him while I hated him. But, sir, I 
 
 do not remember the time when Katie 
 Alison was not a dream in my heart — 
 when I did not tremble at her touch. 
 Even when we pulled the gowans and 
 the cowslips together, though there had 
 been twenty present, it was for Katie 
 that I pulled mine. When we plaited 
 the rushes, I did it for her. She prefer- 
 red me to Jamie, and I knew it .W^hen I 
 left your school, and when I proceeded 
 to India, I did not forget her. But, as 
 you said, men go there to make money — 
 so did I. My friends laughed at my 
 boyish fancy — they endeavored to make 
 
18 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 me ashamed of it. I became smitten 
 with the eastern disease of fortune-mak- 
 ing, and, though I did not forget her, I 
 neglected her. 
 
 But, sir, to drop this: I was not 
 twenty-one when I arrived at Bombay ; 
 nor had I been long there till I was ap- 
 pointed physician to several Parsee fa- 
 milies of great wealth. With but little 
 effort, fortune opened before me. I per- 
 formed a few surgical operations of con- 
 siderable difficulty, with success. In se- 
 veral desperate cases I effected cures, and 
 my name was spread not only through 
 the city, but throughout the island. 
 The riches 1 went to seek I found. But 
 even then, sir, my heart would turn to 
 your school, and to the happy hours I 
 had spent by the side of bonny Katie 
 Alison. 
 
 However, it would be of no interest to 
 enter into the details of my monoto- 
 nous life. I shall dwell only upon one 
 incident, which is, of all others, the most 
 remakable that ever occurred to me, and 
 which took place about six years after 
 my arrival in India. I was in my carri- 
 age, and accompanying the remains of a 
 patient to the burial ground — for you 
 know that doctors cannot cure, when 
 Death is determined to have its way. 
 The burial ground lies about three miles 
 from Bombay, across an extensive and 
 beautiful plain, and the road to it is by 
 a sort of an avenue, lined and shaded on 
 each side by cocoa-nut trees, which 
 spread their branches over the path, and 
 distil their cooling juice into the cups 
 which the Hindoos have placed around 
 them to receive it. You can form but a 
 faint conception of the clear azure of an 
 Indian sky, and never had 1 seen it more 
 beautiful than on the day to which I 
 refer, though some of the weather-pro- 
 phets about Bombay were predicting a 
 storm. 
 
 We were about the middle of the ave- 
 nue I have described, when we overtook 
 the funeral of an officer who had held a 
 
 commission in a corps of Sepoys. The 
 coffin was carried upon the shoulders of 
 four soldiers ; before it marched the Se- 
 poys, and behind it, seated in a palan- 
 quin, borne by four Hindoos, came the 
 widow of the deceased. A large black 
 veil thrown over her head, almost en- 
 veloped her person. Her head was bent 
 upon her bosom, and she seemed to weep 
 bitterly. We followed behind them to 
 the burial-place ; but before the service 
 was half concluded, the heavens overcast, 
 and a storm, such as I had never wit- 
 nessed, burst over our heads, and hurled 
 its fury upon the graves. The rain 
 poured down in a fierce and impetuous 
 torrent — but you know not, in this coun- 
 try, what a torrent of rain is. The thun- 
 der seemed tearing heaven in twain. It 
 rolled, reverbed, and pealed, and rattled 
 with its tremendous voice over the graves 
 of the dead, as though it were the out- 
 bursting of eternity — the first blast of 
 the archangel's trumpet — announcing the 
 coming judgment ! The incessant light- 
 ning flashed through the air, like spirits 
 winged with flame, and awakening the 
 dead. 
 
 The Sepoys fled in terror, and hastened 
 to the city, to escape the terrible fury of 
 the storm. Even those who had accom- 
 panied my friend's body fled with them, 
 before the earth was covered over the 
 dead that they had followed to the grave. 
 But still, by the side of the officer's grave, 
 and unmindful of the storm, stood his 
 poor widow. She refused to leave the 
 spot till the last sod was placed upon her 
 husband's bosom. My heart bled for her. 
 Within three yards from her, stood a 
 veteran English sergeant, who, with the 
 Hindoos, that bore her palanquin, were 
 all that remained in the burial-place. 
 
 Common humanity prompted me to 
 offer her a place in my carriage back to 
 the city. I inquired of the sergeant who 
 the deceased was. He informed me that 
 he was a young Scotch officer — that his 
 marriage had offended his friends — that 
 
THE OLD IRISH BEGGAR-WOMAN. 
 
 19 
 
 they had denounced him in consequence 
 — that he had enlisted — and that the offi- 
 cers of the regiment which he had first 
 joined, had procured him an ensigncy in 
 a corps of Sepoys, but that he had died, 
 leaving the young widow who wept over 
 his grave, a stranger in a strange land. 
 And," added the sergeant, '' a braver fel- 
 low never set foot upon the ground." 
 
 When the last sod had been placed 
 upon the grave, I approached the young 
 widow. I respectfully offered to convey 
 her and the sergeant to the city in my 
 carriage, as the violence of the storm in- 
 creased. 
 
 At my voice, she started — she uttered 
 a suppressed scream — she raised her head 
 — she withdrew her handkerchief from her 
 eyes ! — I beheld her features ! — and, gra- 
 cious Heaven ! — whom sir ! — whom — 
 whom didlsee,butmy own Katie Alison!" 
 
 "Doctor! — Doctor!" exclaimed the 
 old dominie, starting from his seat, " what 
 do I hear ?" 
 
 "I cannot describe to you," continued 
 the other, " the tumultuous joy, com- 
 bined with agony, the indiscribable feel- 
 ings of that moment. We stood — we 
 gasped — we gazed upon each other ; 
 neither of us spoke. I took her hand — 
 I led her to the carriage — I conveyed her 
 to the city." 
 
 " And, doctor, what then .?" inquired 
 the dominie. 
 
 " Why, sir," said the doctor, " many 
 days passed — many words were spoken — 
 mutual tears were shed for Jamie John- 
 stone — and bonny Katie Alison, the las- 
 sie of my first love, became my wife, and 
 is the mother of my children. She will 
 be here in a few days, and will see her 
 old dominie." 
 
 THE OLD IRISH BEGGAR-WOMAN. 
 
 About twenty-five years ago, there came 
 to the door of a certain house, on the 
 south side of Edinburgh, a little, old, 
 Irish beggar-woman, soliciting charity. 
 She was very old — giving her age as 
 eighty-one, and with every appearance 
 of truth. 
 
 In her dress, however, there was none 
 of that squalor and utter wretchedness 
 which one so often sees in those who seek 
 their bread from door to door. Her 
 clothes were not, indeed, indicative of 
 anything approaching to what we call re- 
 spectable ; but they were comfortable. 
 There wore no rags ; and her little gray 
 cloak was rather a snug-looking article : 
 her shoes and stockings were good ; and 
 on her head she wore a very clean white 
 cap. Altogether, there was something 
 
 very pleasing, and well calculated to ex- 
 cite sympathy, in the appearance of the 
 cleanly, little, old beggar-woman. 
 
 It was such feeling as this that induced 
 the lady of the house alluded to, to in- 
 vite the old woman into the kitchen, as 
 the day was very wet and cold. With 
 this invitation she readily complied ; say- 
 ing, as she tottered along the passaf^e, 
 supporting herself by her staff — 
 
 " Thank you, dear— thank you. It's 
 myself that will be glad of a blink o' the 
 fire this could day. It is indeed, dear ; 
 for my ould bones feel the could bitterly." 
 
 A chair was now placed for her before 
 the fire ; when, seating herself, she delibe- 
 rately placed her crook-headed staff on 
 one side ; and on the other, on the floor 
 beside her, a little basket that she car- 
 
20 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ried. To this little basket we should, 
 perhaps, have alluded before. It con- 
 tained a little stock of merchandise — 
 some tape, some balls of thread, and two 
 or three oranges ; the value of all of which 
 would not exceed one sixpence sterling 
 money. There was something piteous 
 about this little basket ; it looked so 
 miserable — so wretched. 
 
 The day, as already mentioned, being 
 very cold and wet, the little old woman 
 was asked if she would take a little spi- 
 rits. 
 
 " No, dear, thank you. It's five-and- 
 forty years since a dhrop o' speerats, or 
 anything stronger than wather, crossed 
 my lips. Many thanks to you, dear, all 
 the same, though. The bit o' fire," she 
 added, toasting her little, old, withered 
 hands before it as she spoke — " the bit 
 o' fire is comfort enough ; and a great 
 comfort it is in such a day as this." 
 
 '' And you drink nothing but water .^" 
 said her hostess, in some surprise at so 
 unusual a peculiarity in one in her con- 
 dition and circumstance. 
 
 " Nothing, dear, unless it be the dhrop 
 tea ; it's my only comfort." 
 
 " You have been always a sober woman, 
 then?" 
 
 " Indeed, and I may say I have, dear. 
 I never was given to dhrinking : I never 
 liked it ; but there was a time when I 
 could take a little like other people. But 
 I saw a scene once that made me forswear 
 it for ever ; and, from that day to this, 
 I have never put a glass to my lips, and, 
 please God, never will." 
 
 The curiosity of her hostess being ex- 
 cited by this allusion, she was asked what 
 was the nature of the circumstance to 
 which it pointed. 
 
 " Troth, dear," replied the old woman, 
 '' it was a case that's but too common ; 
 but, as it happened to my own sister, and 
 before my own eyes, as I may say, it made 
 an impression on me that five-and-forty 
 years has done nothin to weaken. 
 
 " My sisther, who was as purty a girl 
 
 as you could find in all Ireland — and that's 
 a wide word, dear, but a thrue one — 
 married a young farmer of the name of 
 John Dowlan ; as good-lookin a lad as 
 you would see anywhere, and a well-doin. 
 " Awell, dear, for six or seven years 
 they lived happily together. There never 
 was a fonder couple ; and matters throve 
 wid them mightily. It was just a treat 
 to see them. They were so loving ; their 
 house was so tidy ; and everything about 
 them so comfortable and orderly ; their 
 childer — for they had two — so clean and 
 well dressed. It was a purty sight. But, 
 och ! dear, a terrible change came over 
 them. John Dowlan took to the dhrink- 
 in — the cursed dhrinkin. At first, and 
 for some time, wid some regard to de- 
 cency and motheration ; but it was soon 
 from bad to worse, as it always is in such 
 cases, dear. Dowlan drank harder and 
 harder. His farm went to rack and ruin ; 
 his tidy house was gradually stripped of 
 its comforts ; and his childer ran about a? 
 dirty and ragged as the childer of a Dublin 
 beggar. But this wasn't the worst of it, 
 dear, bad as it is. The heart of her bro- 
 ken by Dowlan's misbehavior, Nelly took 
 also to the cursed dhrinkin ; and then 
 there was nothing but fightin and quar- 
 rellin from mornin to nis-ht. 
 
 ^' Well, dear, going one night, when 
 things were in this way, wid a tate o' meal 
 for the childer's supper — for they were 
 now badly off indeed — I finds the house 
 all dark, and no soul moving in it. I 
 went in and called out, but nobody an- 
 swered me. Thinking there was no one 
 in the house, I was comin out agin, when 
 I stumbled over something. I put down 
 my hand to feel. It was my sisther lyin 
 all her length on the floor. Believin that 
 the poor crathur was the worse o' the 
 dhrink, didn't I raise her up, and try to 
 waken her. But no word would she speak, 
 and no motion would she make. So, sus- 
 pectin something wrong, didn't I lay her 
 gently down agin, and run into a neigh- 
 bor's house for a light. 
 
THE OLD IRISH BEGGAR-WOMAN. 
 
 21 
 
 " Och ! och ! God be wid us ! what a 
 sight did I see when I came "back wid the 
 light. Wasn't there my poor sisther lyin 
 murdered on the floor ; her face covered 
 wi' blood ; her long black hair ail spread 
 about, and thickened and glued together 
 wid the life strames o' the poor crathur; 
 and a deep gash in her forehead : and 
 wasn't there John Dowlan lyin in another 
 corner, mortal drunk, and a bloody axe 
 beside him. And, och! och! och! wasn't 
 it the dhrink that did all this ? Hadn't 
 they been dhrinkin and fightin all day 
 long ? and wasn't this the end of it ? It 
 was, aghra — it was. Now, wouldn't that 
 si^ht have cured any one of dhrinkin, 
 dear ? A could and desolate house, with- 
 out fire or candle ; a murdered woman ; 
 and a senseless man, lyin more like a 
 brute than a human crathur ; and two 
 poor, naked, starving childer in the next 
 room, sleepin on a lock o' strae, and not 
 knowin what had happened. There was 
 a sight for you dear, wasn't it ? Is it any 
 wonder I shouldn't ever allow the cursed 
 liquor to approach my mouth ?" 
 
 " And what became of Dowlan ?'' 
 
 ^' Och, dear, and wasn't he hanged for 
 the murder, in less than six weeks after, 
 at Armagh !" 
 
 There was a peculiarity about the old 
 woman, which struck every one who saw 
 her, on the occasion of which we are 
 speaking — these consisting of several 
 members of the family, including two or 
 three children, whom curiosity had gath- 
 ered around her. This peculiarity con- 
 sisted in certain strange, earnest, scru- 
 tinizing looks which she, from time to 
 time, fixed on the difi'erent individuals 
 about her. 
 
 What these looks meant, it was impos- 
 sible to conjecture, as they conveyed no 
 distinct expression of any particular pur- 
 pose. They were odd, however, and re- 
 markable. 
 
 " Now, dears,'' said the old woman, 
 after she had talked herself into some fa- 
 miliarity with her auditory — a familiarity 
 
 which had been farther promoted by a 
 basin of broth and a slice of bread — 
 " Now, dears, I will show you something 
 that I wouldn't show to everybody." 
 
 And she began • rummaging a deep 
 pocket which hung by her side, and from 
 which she cautiously drew forth, but not 
 farther than to allow of its being barely 
 seen, a small golden crucifix. 
 
 ^' See, dears, ^' she said, addressing the 
 children ; " do you know what that is .?" 
 
 *' Is that our Savior on the Cross?" 
 said a little curly-headed boy of about 
 five years of age, gazing with eager curi- 
 osity on the sacred emblem. 
 
 " Yes, dear — yes," replied the old 
 woman, stroking the boy's head kindly. 
 '- It is, jewel. He who sufi'ered for our 
 sins, and through whose mediation lies 
 the only road to salvation." 
 
 For four or five years after this, the 
 little, old, Irish beggar-woman was a fre- 
 quent, although not a very regular, visitor 
 of the family of which we are speaking, 
 where, as she always suited her calls to 
 the tea hour, a cup of that, her favorite 
 beverage, always awaited her. 
 
 At the period of the old woman's first 
 visit to the family alluded to, their cir- 
 cumstances were comfortable ; and, for 
 some time after, they continued so. 
 
 Misfortune, however, came, how or by 
 what means it is not necessary to our 
 story to explain. Be it enough to say, 
 that Mr. Arthur was unfortunate, and, 
 finally, so far embarrassed, that his house- 
 hold furniture was sequestrated for the 
 rent. The day of sale came, and the 
 fatal red flag was displayed at one of the 
 windows. 
 
 The brokers were already gathering 
 about the door, which stood wide open 
 for all who chose to enter. 
 
 It wanted yet about twenty minutes to 
 the hour of sale ; but, as has been said, 
 intending purchasers were already crowd- 
 ing about the door, and thronging the 
 passages of the house. Amongst the 
 latter, feebly struggling to make her way 
 
22 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 in, was a little old woman in a gray cloak. 
 It was the Irish beggar-woman. There 
 was surprise, and an expression of deep 
 and anxious interest, in her aged counte- 
 nance. Pushing on, she found out the 
 apartment in which the unhappy family 
 had assembled, and tottered into the 
 midst of them. 
 
 The sight of the old woman at such a 
 moment gave much pain to both Mrs. 
 Arthur herself, and the other members 
 of the family. They thought it a most 
 unseasonable visit. 
 
 " Och, dear, dear, and this is a sorrow- 
 ful day wid ye," said the old woman to 
 Mrs. Arthur. " Excuse me for comin at 
 sich a time ; but I heerd of your misfor- 
 tune, and thocht it my duty, who had 
 shared of your comforts, to share in your 
 distresses. Will you spake to me a mo- 
 ment, Mrs. Arthur, dear.?" 
 
 Mrs. Arthur retired with her to a window. 
 
 " Don't think it impertinent of me axin, 
 dear," said the old women ; " but what's 
 all this for ? Is it the rint, dear .?" 
 
 Mrs, Arthur told her it was. 
 
 " And how much is it now, jewel } 
 Come now, dear, don't be after cryin 
 your eyes out in that way. I always put 
 my trust in God while in trouble, dear ; 
 and, perhaps, he's nearer you this blessed 
 moment wid assistance, than you're think- 
 in of. How much is the rint, dear .?" 
 
 " It will be altogether about i320," 
 replied Mrs. Arthur, sobbing, and not a 
 little surprised at the old woman's inqui- 
 ries, which, but for the manner in which 
 they were put, she would have deemed 
 impertinent. 
 
 " Twenty pound, dear. Well, get me 
 a word o' your husband, as there's no 
 time to lose." 
 
 Mr. Arthur was immediately brought 
 to her. 
 
 *' You're in distress, sir, and a sorrow- 
 ful sight it is to me to sec it ; but, maybe, 
 I can relieve you," said the old woman. 
 '^ Put everybody out of the room but the 
 mistress and yourself." 
 
 We will not pause to describe Mr. Ar- 
 thur's astonishment at this address, but 
 proceed. 
 
 The apartment being cleared — 
 " Now, dears," said the old woman, 
 working her hand into the deep side-pocket 
 from which she had drawn the crucifix on 
 a former occasion, and from which she 
 now pulled forth an old leathern purse — 
 *' Now, dears, ax no questions, and don't 
 vex me wid refusals or thanks. Here's 
 twenty gould guineas ; and just you settle 
 wid the harpies, Mr. Arthur, dear, and 
 let there be no more about it. You'll 
 pay me back again when you can, as I 
 will be always comin and goin about the 
 house, as usual. There, dear," she added, 
 handing over twenty guineas to Mr. Ar- 
 thur, which she had, in the meantime, 
 counted out from the leathern purse, 
 " Take that, and run away wid ye, and 
 clear the house o' the spalpeens." 
 
 Mr. Arthur would have refused the 
 money ; but she would hear of no denial. 
 He hastened to the apartment where the 
 person sent from the sheriff's-officer ta 
 receive the proceeds of the sale and the 
 auctioneer were. The sale had just be- 
 gun. The first article had been put up, 
 when Mr. Arthur approached the clerk 
 and whispered something in his ear. 
 
 The words acted like a charm. The 
 whole proceedings were instantly stopped : 
 the rent and costs were paid ; and, in ten 
 minutes after, the house was cleared of 
 strangers. It was once more the sancti> 
 ary of Arthur and his family. 
 
 After this, matters again improved with 
 Arthur. The old woman continued her 
 visits as formerly ; but steadily refused 
 receiving back any part of the twenty 
 guineas she had advanced — always say- 
 ing, when partial re-payments were ofier- 
 ed her — 
 
 " Not now, dear : wait awhile till you 
 get a little easier, and maybcs you'll give 
 it to me when I am more in need of it 
 than at present." 
 
 About a year after, the old woman in- 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 23 
 
 formed Mrs. Arthur, one day, that she 
 intended going to Glasgow to see some 
 friends she had there, but that she would 
 return in about a month. 
 
 To Glasgow she accordingly went, as 
 
 was ascertained by subsequent inquiry ; 
 but she never returned, nor was anything 
 more ever heard of her by the family 
 whom she had so seasonably relieved. 
 
 -•-•-♦- 
 
 EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 <* It is a tale better, perhaps, untold — 
 A dark page in the history of mankind, 
 Which would be better wholly blotted out. 
 It grieves me much to speak of evil things, 
 Thou knowest — yet thou urgest me to speak, 
 Well, then, draw near and listen." — Lady Btdwer. 
 
 Marion Sommerville was a nice, live- 
 ly, good-looking girl of eighteen, the 
 heiress of the wide domains of Clarns- 
 dell. An only child, she lost both her 
 parents when very young ; and, during her 
 minority, which was, by her father's will, 
 to extend only till the period of her mar- 
 riage, she was under the guardianship of 
 her maternal uncle. She was a good-na- 
 tured girl enough ; but, having been petted 
 when a child, she had, what few women 
 are unprovided with, a will of her own, 
 which she exercised indiscriminately, ac- 
 cording to the dictates of impulse. There 
 was a want of determination too about her 
 as regarded herself ; she was too facile of 
 purpose. 
 
 Even at the advanced age of eighteen, 
 Marion still dwelt " with deep affection 
 and recollection" on the happy moments 
 she had spent at the village school of An- 
 derton, some twelve years before. Al- 
 though situated about twenty miles from 
 her estate, Anderton was the nearest place 
 where reading, writing, arithmetic, and 
 needlework were taught in a genteel man- 
 ner ; and thither had she been sent, to the 
 care of her deceased father's sister, an old 
 maiden lady, for the purpose of being 
 
 grounded in the rudiments of those polite 
 accomplishments, prior to her being doom- 
 ed to undergo the miseries of human life, 
 at the rate of eighty, or perhaps a hundred 
 guineas a-year, in an Edinburgh or a Lon- 
 don boarding-school. 
 
 At the Anderton establishment there 
 was a mixture of girls and boys ; and, as is 
 usually the case on such occasions, there 
 was a deal of what children dignify with 
 the name of " sweethearting ;" which is 
 neither more nor less than the girls — for 
 they are always the first to make advances 
 — putting themselves under the protection 
 of those boys who happen to be in the 
 daily habit of going the same way, or part 
 of the same way, home. IMarion's com- 
 panion was a pretty little fellow, with curly 
 auburn locks, two years older than her- 
 self, named Arthur Warrington ; and, al- 
 though it took him a considerable distance 
 off his own road, he invariably accompa- 
 nied Marion to the very door of her aunt's 
 house. Marion felt proud of his attentions, 
 and determined in her own mind never to 
 quarrel with him, however much people 
 might ridicule her for going with him. 
 One day — one eventful day — having been 
 rewarded by the schoolmaster with a half 
 
24 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 holiday, or, in other words, the school- 
 master having rewarded himself with a 
 few hours' relaxation from his very ardu- 
 ous duties, Marion and Arthur thought 
 they might, as they thus had plenty of 
 time upon their hands, go home by Har- 
 dy's Mill, which was about two miles 
 farther round than their usual way. Ac- 
 cordingly they set off through the fields in 
 high spirits gathering buttercups and 
 daisies as they went ; and it was late in 
 the afternoon ere they arrived at the brink 
 of the stream below the mill, which was 
 crossed by a single wooden plank. With 
 great glee Arthur ran across first, and-then 
 called to Marion to follow him. Terrified 
 not a little, she began to creep along the 
 plank upon all fours in a state of nervous 
 trepidation ; and when about the middle 
 of it, her fears overcame her, she let go 
 her hold, and fell into the stream, which, 
 luckily, was rather shallow in the sum- 
 mer-time. Instantly Arthur leapt in after 
 her, and, with considerable difficulty, suc- 
 ceeded in bringing her to the opposite 
 bank, " all dripping wet." With a feel- 
 ing of gratitude, her first impulse was to 
 throw her tiny arms around his neck, and 
 sobbed out — " Dear Taddy, I love you 
 much !" 
 
 When she reached her aunt's house 
 that night it was almost dark. Her aunt. 
 Miss Wilhelmina Fizgig, had begun to 
 entertain some fears for her safety, the 
 servant maid having been despatched 
 about s-ix to the schoolhouse, to ascertain 
 whether Miss Marion had been " kept 
 in ;" but, the dominie and his wife having 
 gone out to tea, no one was visible but a 
 little soot-bedizened girl, with her wiry hair 
 done up in choicest whiteybrown, who 
 acted as maid-of-all-work to thp ^family : 
 and she " didna ken naething^ about it." 
 Thus was Miss Fizgig's servant compelled 
 to return as wise as she went. Another 
 hour having elapsed, during which Miss 
 Fizgig had repeatedly pulled up her 
 drawing-room window, and vainly peered 
 out into the road, for the purpose of ob- 
 
 taining the first view of the little culprit, 
 and the first tidings of her approach, the 
 maid-servant was desired to leave off 
 scouring the dishes in the kitchen, and to 
 perform the same operation to the country 
 round, and more particularly to the vil- 
 lage of Anderton. These directions the 
 maid-servant promised implicitly to obey ; 
 but, like Mrs. Maclarty, not being over- 
 willing to be " fashed" with the perform- 
 ance of what she deemed superfluous 
 labor, the more especially at a time when 
 she was momentarily expecting a call from 
 her pro-tempore sweetheart, John Dowdle, 
 who, when he had nothing better to do, 
 made love to her purely for the sake of 
 the supper and aquavitse with which she 
 was wont to regale him, made a feint of 
 leaving the house by the front, but almost 
 immediately returned by the back door. 
 At eight o'clock she once more went out, 
 and came in again instantly, carrying the 
 information, that " she couldna see Miss 
 Marion," up stairs to her mistress, who 
 thus allowed herself to be egregiously de- 
 ceived into the belief that " the faithful 
 creature" had actually done as she had 
 desired her. 
 
 In about half an hour more, the young 
 lady made her appearance in propria per- 
 sona. She was well rated by her aunt for 
 her extraordinary want of punctuality^ 
 and for the consequent trouble she had 
 occasioned ; and, after Miss Wilhelmina 
 Fizgig had scolded her trembling little 
 niece to nearly her heart's desire, she 
 caught her up by one of the arms, and 
 nearly jerked it off in an attempt to im- 
 press with effect upon her mind the un- 
 paralleled evil of the deed of which she 
 had been guilty. As for the frock and 
 trousers she had on, they were now ren- 
 dered hardly fit for the meanest drudge to 
 wear — at least so said Miss Fizfricr, who con- 
 eluded the evening's amusements by call- 
 ing Marion " a little pest," and sending 
 her suppcrless to bed. The next morning 
 she was packed off to her uncle at Clarens- 
 dell. From that time Marion had never 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 25 
 
 seen Arthur ; yet she thought not of him 
 but with delight, and ended by fancying 
 herself desperately in love with him. 
 
 Having been invited to spend a day or 
 two with a friend of her's, whose father's 
 house was in the immediate vicinity of 
 Clarensdell, Marion rose betimes, and set 
 out immediately after breakfast, accom- 
 panied by her waiting-maid, Barbara. 
 Part of her road lay through the wood of 
 Blantyre ; and, when about the centre of 
 it, she was not a little surprised to meet a 
 young gentleman coming in the opposite 
 direction. This was the more remarkable 
 as the hour was so early, and the road not 
 much frequented. He saluted her with a 
 "Good morning, madam!" and passed 
 on. There was something in the tones of 
 his voice, ay, and in the features of his 
 face too, which struck Marion as being 
 familiar to her. She could not, however, 
 bring herself to recollect where she had 
 seen him. It was strange that an incident 
 so commonplace as this could make any 
 lasting impression upon Marion's mind ; 
 but so it was — she could not for the life 
 of her banish the recollections of the form 
 and voice of the stranger. It was unac- 
 countable even to herself. He haunted 
 her waking thoughts all that day, and her 
 dreams all that night. The next morn- 
 in2j it was still the same. Marion became 
 silent and contemplative. Her friend, 
 Miss Falkland, could not imagine what 
 had come over her, but looked forward 
 to an entertainment which her father in- 
 tended giving the ensuing night as a thing 
 to raise Marion's depressed spirits. And 
 it did so ; for at that entertainment Marion 
 again beheld the stranger who had passed 
 her in the wood the preceding morning. 
 He paid her very great attention ; and, 
 when together, they were as happy a cou- 
 ple as were in the room that night. They 
 invariably danced together, to the great 
 annoyance and envy of sundry young 
 ladies and gentleman, who were sadly 
 shocked at the monopoly. 
 
 Once, during a sprightly conversation 
 
 with the gentleman of the wood, Marion 
 smiled one her sweetest smiles. He 
 started. She gazed at him with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Pardon me!" he exclaimed; "but 
 when you smiled then, you called up be- 
 fore me the image of a little girl I once 
 knew." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Marion, while her 
 heart fluttered as she spoke. 
 
 " Yes !" said the stranger with enthu- 
 siasm. " She was the sweetest, kindest, 
 prettiest child I ever met with." 
 
 " And pray," inquired Marion, " what 
 may have been the name of the little di- 
 vinity .?" 
 
 " Marion .?" was the reply. 
 " What else .?" 
 
 " Really, I cannot tell," said the gen- 
 tleman, who, Marion felt assured, was no 
 other than Arthur Warrington. " I never 
 knew her by any other name than Marion. " 
 "How odd!" exclaimed Marion, not 
 wishing, as yet, to acknowledge her iden- 
 tity. 
 
 Shortly after this the party broke up, 
 and Marion retired to her couch that 
 night in much better humor with herself 
 and everybody else than she had been for 
 the last two days. 
 
 A week elapsed ere Marion Sommerville 
 again beheld Arthur Warrington. She 
 was strolling in the same wood in which 
 he had so suddenly re-appeared ; and, ere 
 she was aware of any one's approach Ar- 
 thur was again by her side. He spoke ; 
 and Marion felt she loved him. His con- 
 verse was chiefly about the Marion who 
 had been his school companion in days 
 gone by. He said that now being in a 
 situation to marry, he should like to look 
 upon Marion again ; and if he saw in her 
 the same being he had once seen, if he be- 
 held the same perfection in the woman as 
 his boyish dreams had ascribed to the girl, 
 he would not hesitate a moment to offer her 
 his hand. He then recounted the adven- 
 ture he and his little sweetheart had had 
 at the mill stream. Marion hung upoa 
 
06 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 his account of it with breathless delight ; 
 and when he reached that part where she 
 had thrown her arms around his neck upon 
 his rescuing her from the water, and was 
 about to repeat the words she had uttered 
 on that occasion, she stopped him, and 
 looking archly in his face, asked whether 
 she would not tell him what his Marion 
 had said ; but, ere he could return an 
 answer either in the affirmative or in the 
 negative, she came out with — " Dear Tad- 
 dy, I love you much !" 
 
 Arthur Warrington, on hearing those 
 words spoken in nearly the same tone of 
 voice as his remembrance assured him he 
 had once heard them before, gave an in- 
 voluntary start as the pleasant truth flash- 
 ed across his mind. 
 
 " And are you indeed my own Marion .?" 
 he cried ; " then the visions of my boy- 
 hood were not delusive. Marion," he 
 continued, more calmly, " I have no fine 
 gilded words with which to woo you ; but 
 believe in my truth and my sincerity, when 
 I address you in this plain and simple 
 phrase — I love you." 
 
 And the affection Marion entertained 
 for him was reciprocal— at least she 
 thought so, and after a while, she con- 
 fessed it to him. Arthur was happy. He 
 proposed, and was accepted, with the full 
 consent of Marion's uncle. At the. end 
 of the week, however, business of impor- 
 tance called him home ; and he tore him- 
 self reluctantly away, promising to return 
 in less than a month, which was the time 
 fixed upon for the solemnization of their 
 nuptials. Thus deprived of the sweet 
 solace of communion with her lover, ex- 
 cept through the cold medium of the 
 post-office, Marion's spirits, which during 
 his stay, had been in the highest possible 
 state, now fell considerably below zero. 
 She pined in thought for more than two 
 days, during which, 
 
 *' Slumber soothed not, pleasure could not please." 
 
 During all that time, she looked eagerly 
 for a letter from him her heart held dear, 
 
 as the only thing that could raise her soul 
 beyond the pale of calm indifference to 
 every object around her. 
 
 On the third morning, the post-boy 
 brought two letters for Marion — one was 
 from Arthur Warrington. It was the first 
 love-letter — certainly the first from Arthur 
 Warrington — she had ever received. 
 There was a strange flushing of her cheek, 
 a fluttering at her heart, and her pulse 
 beat quicker as she undid the seal, the 
 impress of which was a dove bearing a let- 
 ter, and the motto underneath was " Re~ 
 pondez vite.^^ 
 
 '' What a mysterious feeling is that," 
 says Lady Bulwer, in her talented novel 
 of " Cheveley," " which we experience, 
 upon beholding, for the first time, the 
 writing of the person we love addressed 
 to ourselves ! However commonplace the 
 subject au.d the words may be, yet to us 
 they have a meaning and a mystery the 
 same words never had before, and never 
 will have again. They are looked upon 
 again and again, in every possible direction : 
 we try to discover if our names are written 
 more clearly or more tremblingly than the 
 rest ; and, in either case, oui* hearts are 
 satisfied with the omen. Even the paper 
 is scrutinized to its very edges, as though 
 we had never seen a sheet of paper be- 
 fore, or as if that sheet of paper must of 
 necessity be different and superior to any 
 that had been previously made, like cha- 
 racters traced in milk, which are weak and 
 invisible till exposed to the heat of the 
 fire ; each time we gaze on this mysteri- 
 ous paper, the warmth of our own imagi- 
 nation brings out a force and a meaning 
 that was imperceptible before ; then every 
 word is kissed as passionately as if they were 
 the lips that could have uttered them." 
 
 All this did Marion feel ; and a full 
 hour passed unconsciously away, ere she 
 laid down Arthur's letter, and took up 
 the other which the post-boy had brought. 
 It proved to be an invitation to spend a 
 fortnio-ht with a friend at Lilburu — a little 
 village thii'ty miles distant ; and her uncle, 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 27 
 
 observing the depressed state of her 
 sph-its, advised her to accept it. Ac- 
 cordingly, the next morning, after writing 
 to Arthur, she departed for Lilburn. 
 
 Mrs. Esdaile, the friend whom she went 
 to see, had been the daughter of a most 
 intimate companion of her mother ; and 
 having recently bestowed ber heart and 
 hand upon Mr. Esdaile, a gentleman who 
 had once belonged to the army, but hav- 
 ing sold out, he lived by those impercept- 
 ible means which many in this world live 
 by ; that is, his neighbors could not com- 
 prehend how he contrived to live in the 
 manner he did without a profession, trade, 
 or calling of any kind whatsoever, and he 
 did not seem disposed to enlighten them 
 on the subject. 
 
 It was the first time that Marion Som- 
 merville had seen her friend since her 
 marriage, and the reception she met with 
 was warm in the extreme. When Marion 
 arrived, Mr. Esdaile was not at home. 
 Her friend said, that he had gone a short 
 way into the country. Marion was rather 
 pleased than otherwise at his absence, as 
 it afforded her an opportunity of hearing 
 and telling those many little nameless 
 circumstances which female friends, who 
 have been some time parted, always have 
 to tell. 
 
 After tea, Marion, at Mrs. Esdaile 's 
 desire, sat down at the piano and played 
 over several of those airs with which they 
 were both familiar. One song in particu- 
 lar, entitled, " I ne'er can love again," 
 had been a great favorite of theirs, and 
 Marion was called upon to repeat it more 
 than once. The words ran someway 
 thus : — 
 
 Alas, liC's gone ! — all hope is o'er ; 
 
 No joy— no joy for me ; 
 Within this blighted heart, no more 
 
 May comfort ever be. 
 All that the world aflbrds, can bring 
 
 Not such delight as when 
 "We pledged our faith beside the spring : 
 
 I ne"er can love again. 
 
 A suitor comes from distant land. 
 
 Where happiness doth live ; 
 I cannot olier him my hand, 
 
 When I've no heart to give. 
 
 My rosy cheek, mine eyes so bright, 
 
 That won the praise of men, 
 Are faded, dim, and joyless quite : 
 
 I ne'er can love again. 
 
 The flowers are withering on the stem; 
 
 The leaves upon the boughs : 
 But I shall fall long, long ere then, 
 
 The sport of broken vo'ws. 
 Oh I when I die, let me be laid 
 
 In yonder peaceful glen 
 Beside the spring let my grave be made, 
 
 Ne'er to know love again. 
 
 Ere Marion had finished the singing of 
 this song for the third time, Mr. Esdaile 
 and another gentleman entered the apart- 
 ment unperceived by her. Seating them- 
 selves quietly on a sofa near the fireplace, 
 " they spoke not, they moved not, they 
 looked not around, but earnestly gazed " 
 upon the fair vocalist, as if attention had 
 been suddenly aroused within them, de- 
 manding at their hands the respect of 
 silence. When the air terminated, they 
 arose and drew nearer the piano ; and 
 Marion, in turning towards Mrs. Esdaile, 
 for the first time observed them. They 
 were instantly introduced by the lady of 
 the house, as her husband, and his friend, 
 Mr. Walsingham. Marion thought she 
 had never before seen so elegant a man as 
 Mr. Walsingham. His figure was tall 
 and commanding, his eyes dark and pene- 
 ti-ating, his manner agreeable ; and he 
 possessed that peculiar beauty so grateful 
 to the eye of the female sex, black whisk- 
 ers. In the course of the evening, he 
 rallied her upon the burthen of the song 
 he had heard her sing. 
 
 " I trust," said he, " that the words, 
 ' I ne'er can love again,' were not uttered 
 by you in sober earnest, else I shall cer- 
 tainly insist on all unmarried gentlemen 
 adding a drop of prussic acid to their 
 nightly toddy." 
 
 Marion, in the plain simplicity of her 
 heart, answered him, in the most matter- 
 of-fact manner possible, by saying that at 
 the time she was singing a song she took 
 no heed of the actual meanino; of the 
 words, but merely looked on them as so 
 many partners of the notes, without which 
 it was almost impossible to give due effect 
 
S8 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 to the air. When considered apart from | their steps, till after the moon had risen. 
 
 the music, they were usually, she said, a 
 collection of meaningless sentences, often 
 amounting to the absurd, tagged together 
 promiscuously. 
 
 Marion could not tell how it was, but 
 she felt a sort of restraint in Walsing- 
 ham's presence, which effectually put to 
 the rout all her accustomed liveliness, 
 and she could not converse with him in 
 the same manner as she could with other 
 people. Hers was a feeling of respect 
 almost bordering upon awe. And yet 
 Mr. Walsingham's conversation was com- 
 prised of nothing more than the merest 
 commonplaces \ certain it is, however, 
 that some people have the art of bestow- 
 ing on the commonest words an interest 
 and a novelty of expression that others 
 would fail of imparting to the most 
 original ideas. Besides, Mr. Walsingham 
 was in the best spirits imaginable, and 
 
 On their return to the villa, they had al~ 
 ways music, for Marion could sing, IMr. 
 Walsingham could sing, Mrs. Esdaile 
 could sing, and Mr. Esdaile could sing 
 — a little ; that is to say, he did not 
 know a single note of music, but, hav- 
 ing a pretty correct ear, he could lilt over 
 a song after hearing it once or twice sung. 
 Mr. Walsingham's knowledge of music 
 was nothing very extraordinary, but he 
 always contrived to sing a tolerable se- 
 cond when the person who sung the first 
 was a young and handsome female. 
 
 Many a girl, older and more experienced 
 than Marion Sommerville was — ay, and 
 many a young man, too, have felt the pow- 
 erful aid that moonlight walks and music, 
 particularly duet singing, afibrd to the en- 
 genderment of love. It is not therefore 
 to be wondered at, that Marion herself 
 should have fallen a ready victim to such 
 
 seemed determined to gain the good graces | mysterious fascinations, when, in addition 
 of Marion. It is astonishing how the wish 
 to please ensures success ; about the only 
 wish, alas ! that does ensure its own ful- 
 filment, and therefore I wonder that it is 
 not a more universal one. That night, 
 when Marion went to bed, her dreams 
 were of Walsingham, and Arthur was for- 
 gotten. Notwithstanding the awe she felt 
 in Walsingham's presence, it was evident 
 that he had made some slight impression 
 on her heart. 
 
 During her stay, Mr. Esdaile was polite 
 and gentlemanly towards her, but his at- 
 tentions were cold and commonplace when 
 compared with those of Mr. Walsingham. 
 So handsome and accomplished, too, as 
 Mr. Walsino;ham was — at least she, from 
 
 want of experience, considered him ac- 
 complished — there could be little wonder 
 that Marion felt proud of his attentions. 
 He was a daily visitor at Mr. Esdaile's, 
 and in the evening — for it was yet but 
 early autumn — they all strolled out to- 
 gether, on which occasions Walsingham 
 was invariably the companion of Marion, 
 nor did they usually think of retracing 
 
 her always constant companion was a 
 handsome man who strove on every occa- 
 sion to render himself agreeable. 
 
 Walsingham praised her eyes, her hair 
 — indeed every feature she possessed — in 
 the most enraptured manner ; and for so 
 doing, Marion deemed hira a sensible, nay, 
 a very sensible, man. She thought of Ar- 
 thur ; but he fell far into the shade when 
 she attempted to compare him with her 
 new-found friend, Mr. W^alsingham. Ar- 
 thur had never praised her eyes, and, as 
 she felt well assured that they were ex- 
 ceedingly pretty, she began to entertain 
 the idea that he was utterly insensible to 
 their beauty. He had never even uttered 
 one word of flattery. Oh ! he was not for 
 an instant to be put into competition with 
 Mr. Walsingham. Yet, for all this, her 
 better nature prompted, and she resolved 
 to keep the vows she had pledged to Ar- 
 thur. Poor girl ! unskilled in the world's 
 ways, she did not know that an elevated 
 and sincere affection despises the arts of 
 flattery, and that it is only a feigned love 
 which delights in them. 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 23 
 
 There is, liowever, it must be owned, 
 an extraordinary fascination in flattery, 
 that makes its way even against the iron 
 hearts of the votaries of long experience. 
 There is nothing so likely to conciliate 
 your good opinion of others, as to find that 
 they either entertain or profess to enter- 
 tain exaggerated notions of yourself. " A 
 gift," says Solomon, " perverteth the 
 wise ;" and what gift so pleasing to the 
 vanity of the human heart, as that one 
 which, after all, costs least to ofier — 
 Flattery ! It is impossible, if not un- 
 grateful of you to judge impartially of 
 those who have judged favorably of you. 
 The smoke of the incense which they offer 
 you, rises up between you and them, and 
 you see them through the colored medi- 
 um of that cloud, with all their good qua- 
 lities magnified, and all their imperfec- 
 tions dimmed. 
 
 The evening preceding the day which 
 Marion had fixed on for her return home, 
 she found herself suddenly left alone in 
 the room with Mr. Walsingham. Con- 
 scious that this might be viewed as im- 
 proper by any one who might enter, she 
 rose to retire. Mr. Walsingham gently 
 detained her. 
 
 " Stay, Miss Sommerville," he said, 
 " I wish a moment's converse with you," 
 
 Struck with this appeal, Marion turned, 
 and demanded to know his wishes. Wal- 
 singham cowered beneath her glance ; 
 this action was but momentary, yet it did 
 not pass unnoticed by Marion. She ob- 
 served, too, a strangeness in his manner, 
 and an unusual flush upon his cheek. He 
 paused ; and it was not till Marion had 
 asked him a second time what he required 
 of her, that he could summon fortitude 
 enough to speak. 
 
 " I have long panted for this opportu- 
 nity," said he, " and, believe me, it shall 
 not be lost. Marion, it is needless to dis- 
 guise my feelings — I love you I Then say 
 at once, my own beloved, will you consent 
 to become mine .^" 
 
 As he uttered these words, he attempted 
 
 to press Marion to his breast. She re- 
 pulsed him indignantly : at the same time^ 
 quite overpowered with the abruptness of 
 his offer, silent as a statue, she turned to 
 leave the room. She caught the handle 
 of the door, and tried to open it. It was 
 locked, and there was no key. 
 
 " You see," said Walsingham, smiling 
 a ghastly smile, " every precaution has 
 been taken ; and, unless you consent to 
 become my wife before to-morrow at noon, 
 you cannot be permitted to leave this 
 room." 
 
 ''Heavens!" exclaimed Marion, "a 
 prisoner ! And by what right, sir, do you 
 presume to detain me ? I will alarm the 
 house. Mr. Esdaile shall know." 
 
 " You may save yourself the trouble, 
 my dearest Marion. My friend Esdaile 
 and his wife are aware of my design, and 
 they have purposely left the house." 
 
 At these words, Marion threw herself 
 down upon the sofa in a paroxysm of dis- 
 appointment, covered her face with her 
 hands, and gave vent to her grief in tears. 
 
 Upwards of an hour elapsed, and affairs 
 wore the same aspect. IVFarion was still 
 a prisoner, and Walsingham continued 
 pressing his suit with the most indefatiga- 
 ble ardor. Driven to the verge of desper- 
 ation, Marion rushed to the window, with 
 the fixed determination of throwing her- 
 self over into the gardens below ; by which 
 act she would, in all probability, have only 
 maimed, not killed herself, as she imagin- 
 ed she would, for the room in which they 
 were was on the second story ; but Wal- 
 singham, foreseeing such a proceeding on 
 her part, had had the window carefully 
 secured. Her efforts, therefore, to raise 
 the casement proved unavailing, and she 
 once more sunk down upon the sofa. 
 Still Walsingham urged her to accept him, 
 as the partner of her future life, the sharer 
 of her joys and of her sorrows ; and he vow- 
 ed he would be more to her than ever hus- 
 band had been to wife before — he would be 
 always her adoring slave. VYrought up to 
 a more than ordinary pitch of excitement, 
 
30 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 by the conflicting powers of faar, grief, 
 and despair, and, perhaps, believing in all 
 that Walsingham had vowed, the poor girl 
 at length yielded a reluctant consent to his 
 proposals. 
 
 Early the next morning, Marion rose, 
 and was preparing for her departure — for 
 she considered the forced consent she had 
 given Walsingham as by no means bind- 
 ing — when Mrs. Esdaile entered her apart- 
 ment, and expressed astonishment at her 
 proceedings. 
 
 " It is quite impossible, you know, my 
 dear," she said, " that you can return 
 home until you have fulfilled the promise 
 you last night gave to Mr. Walsingham." 
 
 Marion attempted to remonstrate with 
 her on the injustice of such a proceeding, 
 knowing, as she did, her engagement to 
 Arthur Warrington. Mrs. Esdaile was 
 inexorable ; and poor Marion was com- 
 pelled to accompany her, Mr. Esdaile, 
 and Mr. Walsingham, to the house of a 
 justice of the peace, where the indissoluble 
 knot was tied. That evening Marion fled 
 from the house of her friend, Mrs. Es- 
 daile, and returned home. 
 
 The object of Marion's being invited to 
 Mrs. Esdaile's had been accomplished. 
 Esdaile and his friend Walsingham were 
 gamblers, and ruin was staring them in the 
 face. The luck had gone against them. 
 Reduced to such extremity, a desperate, 
 but lawful act — by which they could ob- 
 tain a supply of money, to enable them to 
 redeem their recent losses — was all that 
 remained to them. Marion Sommerville 
 was an heiress, and Walsingham was un- 
 married. The snare was laid, and their 
 victim was entangled in its meshes. 
 
 A day or two after Marion's return to 
 Clarensdell, Arthur Warrington arrived to 
 fulfil the contract. Not a word did Marion 
 whisper of her broken vows. She thought 
 that Walsingham would never dare to 
 claim her, and therefore was she silent. 
 Better would it have been for her had she 
 confessed all to Arthur, and thrown her- 
 self upon his mercy ; but, no, she could 
 
 not summon resolution enouL^h to do so, 
 for the confession would, in some degree, 
 implicate herself. With as much calm- 
 ness, therefore, as she could summon to 
 her aid, she went with Arthur to the altar, 
 and there pledged her faith to him. 
 
 Arthur had taken a small but delightful 
 little cottage in the vicinity of the town in 
 which his warehouses were situated, and 
 thither did he carry his bride. Months 
 rolled by in harmony and joy ; and Ma- 
 rion, in the enjoyment of pleasant dreams, 
 thought that Walsingham, having repent- 
 ed of his conduct, was determined to leave 
 her unmolested. How much, therefore, 
 was she surprised, when, one morning, a 
 card was brought to her, the address of 
 which she at once knew to be in Walsing- 
 ham's hand-writing. She opened it with 
 no little trepidation, and read : 
 
 "Dear Marion, — There is a large oak 
 tree growing at the extremity of your gar- 
 den. Meet me beneath its boughs to- 
 night at twelve. Fail not to come. I 
 have much to say to you. Deny me this 
 meeting, and Arthur Warrington shall 
 know all. A court of law shall settle our 
 disputes. 
 
 " Yours afi'ectionately, 
 
 " Edward Walsingham." 
 
 At twelve, Marion stood beneath the 
 shadow of the oak. She had obeyed the 
 summons of Walsingham, from a fear of 
 the threatened consequences. She felt 
 she would rather make any sacrifice than 
 that Arthur should come to a knowledge 
 of her deceitful conduct. Ere she left the 
 house, she had satisfied herself that her 
 husband slept. 
 
 As the last stroke of the hour died away 
 upon the breeze, Walsingham was at her 
 side. 
 
 " Marion," he said, " I have sought 
 this interview to tell you how greatly I am 
 reduced in circumstances since the last 
 time we saw each other." And he opened 
 his cloak, and showed that the dress he 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 31 
 
 wore was in tatters. Marion recoiled 
 from him. " Nay, shrink not," he con- 
 tinued. " Marion ! this night you must 
 fly with me. Beggar as I am, I claim you 
 as my wife." 
 
 " Oh, have pity on me !" said Marion. 
 " Say, will nothing move you .?" 
 
 •" Yes ; money. Give me money ! " 
 
 " How much," faltered Marion — " How 
 much will you take to leave this country 
 for ever ?" 
 
 " Not all that you could give me would 
 force me to become an exile from my na- 
 tive land. With all its faults, I love it 
 still, and trust I never shall be compelled 
 to quit it." 
 
 " And this man," thought Marion, 
 " will be a basilisk in my path till my day 
 of death. If I give him money now, he 
 may make the same demand again and 
 again, accompanied with the threat of ex- 
 posure if I refuse. Better, at once, to fly 
 far, far from hence. Yes ; it shall be so. 
 On Thursday night," she added, aloud, 
 " I will again meet you on this spot, and 
 bring a sum to satisfy your present 
 need." 
 
 Ere then she hoped to be beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 " On Thursday be it then. Here will 
 we meet at twelve !" 
 
 He had scarcely uttered these words, 
 when the figure of a man, unbonneted, 
 rushed forward, and confronted him. It 
 was Arthur Warrington. 
 
 " Villain !" cried Arthur, choking with 
 passion, " I know not who you are. It 
 matters not ; my vengeance must be satis- 
 fied." 
 
 So saying, he struck at Walsingham 
 with his sword. Walsingham drew forth 
 a pistol ; but Arthur, dashing it to the 
 earth, ran him through the body with his 
 sword, Walsingham fell. Then Arthur, 
 seemingly nowise horrified at what he had 
 done, turned towards the half-faintino- 
 Marion and said — 
 
 " Traitress ! viper ! hence ! — hence from 
 my sight for ever !" 
 
 " Dear Arthur !" exclaimed Marion, 
 embracing his knees, " I am innocent — 
 indeed 1 am !" 
 
 " 'Tis false !" said Arthur, as he disen- 
 gaged himself from her frantic grasp, and 
 rushed from the scene. 
 
 In the morning, the body of Walsing- 
 ham was nowhere to be found. That very 
 night the cottage of Arthur Warrington 
 fell a prey to the flames, and Arthur him- 
 self narrowly escaped with his life. 
 
 Shortly after these transactions, he 
 wound up his afiairs, and left the country, 
 unknowino; of the fate of her on whom his 
 almost constant thoughts had dwelt for 
 many a day, and with whom he had ex- 
 pected his after life would have been hap- 
 pily spent. 
 
 We must pass over a period of twenty 
 years, during which Arthur Warrington 
 had amassed a considerable fortune in 
 America, and had returned to his own na- 
 tive isle to enjoy it. He settled in Eng- 
 land ; for in Scotland, where his miseries 
 had been, he knew that he could not be 
 happy. Besides, as a country, he admired 
 England most. " For my own part," says 
 a modern novelist, and we are inclined to 
 coincide with the sentiment, " there is to 
 me an indescribable charm in the calm, 
 the quiet, the soft, the cultivated, and, 
 above all, the home look of English scene- 
 ry, which neither the gorgeous, Balshaz- 
 zar-like splendor of the east, the balmy 
 and Sybarite softness of the south, the 
 wildness of the west, nor the frozen, but 
 mighty, magnificence of the north, can 
 obliterate or compensate for. England 
 (the country, not the people) is merry 
 England still. There is a youth about 
 England that no other country possesses 
 — not even the nevo world ; for there the 
 vast and hoary forests — the rushing and 
 stupendous torrents — all seem like Na- 
 ture's legends of immemorial time." 
 
 The lord of the manor, Arthur W^ar- 
 rington, lost no opportunity of minister- 
 ing to the comforts of his tenantry, and 
 
32 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 of doing good to everybody : in short, he 
 led the life of — 
 
 " A good old country gentleman, 
 All of the olden time." 
 
 He was still a bachelor, or, as he was 
 pleased to style himself, a widower ; for j 
 the deceit which had already been prac- 
 tised upon him by one woman, had engen- 
 dered in him a dislike for the whole sex. 
 
 Within a plantation on his grounds, at 
 the period of which we treat, two persons, 
 of a vagabondish appearance, had reared 
 a temporary habitation ; and thither had 
 they retired with their wives ; their chief 
 employment consisted in taking short ex- 
 cursions, and returnino; to their hut well 
 stocked with game, poultry, and other 
 provisions. The population of several of 
 the hen-roosts belonofins; to the cottars 
 around began daily to become 
 
 " Small by degrees, and beautifully less ;*' 
 and they had, in consequence, preferred 
 several complaints to the steward on the 
 subject ; but, as Arthur Warrington, from 
 mistaken motives of compassion, had given 
 strict orders that the people in the plan- 
 tation should not be disturbed, he could 
 afford them no redress, although he plainly 
 understood who were the depredators. 
 
 " I say, Walter," said the taller of the 
 ruffians, as they sat by their peat fire one 
 evening, after they had made an unusually 
 large collection of delicacies, " don't you 
 think the old fellow that this estate be- 
 longs to is afraid of us, that he lets us do 
 as we choose, without taking the least no- 
 tice of our proceedings .'"' 
 
 " I don't know," returned the other ; 
 " and, what's more, I don't care; for, if 
 he or any of his servants were to attack 
 us, blow me if I wouldn't sarve out every 
 mother's son on'em with a brace of pistol 
 bullets." 
 
 " Manfully spoken, Walter," said a 
 woman with a very red face, the evident 
 produce of ardtjnt spirits and the heat of 
 tlie fire, who sat on a stool at the farther 
 corner, and who seemed, from the charge 
 she took of him, to be his wife. " Man- 
 
 fully spoken ; and I honor you for the sen- 
 timent. But," she added, rising, " it is 
 time I were off to Melton for some more 
 brandy ; for, as Macheath says in the play 
 — ^ My courage is out.' Good-bye, Wal- 
 ter." She then saluted him, took a quart 
 bottle from a shelf, and, concealing it un- 
 der a faded red cloak which partially en- 
 veloped her limbs, left the hut. 
 
 " Now, why can't you be as bold and as 
 fearless as Amelia .^" said the ruffian who 
 had first spoke, to a slender-looking wo- 
 man, the only remaining inmate of the 
 hovel. " Why, Amelia would go through 
 fire and' water to serve her husband, and 
 why can't you do the same, instead of be- 
 ing the pale heartless thing you are r" 
 
 This was spoken in a taunting tone of 
 voice, and the poor woman did not seem 
 inclined to venture any answer to it. All 
 she did was to turn her lack-lustre eyes 
 upon her interrogator, and then burst into 
 tears. It was plain she was afraid of him 
 — one could read so in her look, and to 
 him she evidently attributed all her mis- 
 fortunes. But this mattered nothing now 
 — for the grief that had for years been 
 gnawing at her heart-strings had nearly 
 completed its work. 
 
 " Come, Walsingham !" cried he who 
 had been styled Walter ; " leave your 
 high-born lady there to weep in private. 
 Sorrow and solitude go hand in hand, my 
 boy. Besides, I have something to say to 
 you, which is for your ear alone." 
 
 So saying, Walter passed his arm 
 through that of Walsingham ; and the 
 amiable pair took their departure, without 
 deio-ning to cast another look at the poor 
 heart-broken victim of their machinations. 
 No sooner were they gone, than jMarion — 
 for it was indeed the once proud heiress 
 of Clarensdcll — put on her bonnet, and 
 prepared to follow them. That there was 
 some diabolical scheme in petio she felt 
 assured of. The close observation of 
 many years had enabled her to detect, by 
 a 2;lance at Walter Esdaile's countenance, 
 the inward workimrs of his heart ; and she 
 
EARLY ATTACHMENTS. 
 
 33 
 
 clearly saw that the communication he was 
 about to make to Walsiugham was one not 
 scrupulously exact in principle. 
 
 Throwing a peat or two upon the wan- 
 ing fire, and pulling to the door of the hut, 
 she stood alone on the outside. 
 
 " The little stars sat one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 
 The evening air passed by her cheek, 
 The loaves above were stirred ; 
 
 But the beating of her own heart 
 Was all the sound she heard." 
 
 She listened, and, after a moment, she 
 thought she heard a crackling sound, at a 
 short distance, as if some one trode heavi- 
 ly among the underwood. She was not 
 mistaken ; and cautiously advancing in the 
 direction whence the sound proceeded, 
 she discerned two figures, who, she doubt- 
 ed not, were Esdaile and Walsiugham. 
 She saw them go on a little farther into 
 the thickest part of the wood ; and she 
 could perceive Esdaile, ever and anon, 
 turn round his head for the purpose, per- 
 haps, of observing whether they were fol- 
 lowed; but she took care, by cowering 
 down among the underwood, not to betray 
 herself. They passed on to a rude seat 
 they had constructed beneath the boughs 
 of a wide-spreading oak ; and Marion fol- 
 lowed as quickly, yet as noiselessly as 
 possible, even to the very trunk of the 
 tree beneath which they sat, and concealed 
 herself behind it, so as distinctly to hear 
 their conversation. 
 
 " But how," said Walsiugham to his 
 colleague, " is the thing to be accomplish- 
 ed ? The fellow himself keeps at home 
 of an evening ; and, besides, his servants 
 are so cursedly honest that there's no get- 
 ting access to the house by fair means." 
 
 " My plan is this. I have discovered 
 that he has given liberty to all his ser- 
 vants to go to a ball at Melton to-morrow 
 evening; so that he will be alone in the 
 house, and not a soul within call. It will 
 then be an easy matter for either of us to 
 enter by one of the lower windows, and 
 make off with whatever valuables we can 
 lay our hands on. That task be mine ; 
 
 VOL. II. 3 
 
 while you will remain outside, ready to 
 stab the follow to the heart if he should 
 pursue me ; for, encumbered as I will be 
 with the booty, it will be almost impossi- 
 ble for me to use my pistols." 
 
 " The plan is excellent," returned Wal- 
 siugham ; " but how gained you the intel- 
 ligence regarding his servants .?" 
 
 " No matter — I am certain of the truth 
 of it. To-morrow evening, at seven, it 
 will be pitch dark. Let that be the hour. 
 I will leave the hut first, and you can fol- 
 low me in about ten minutes afterwards, 
 in order to prevent the suspicions of that 
 lady wife of yours, who, I feel convinced, 
 has her eye on us at every turn." 
 
 " Pooh ! Not she — she dare not. She 
 is too much afraid of her handsome hus- 
 band. Ha! ha!" 
 
 Well, then ! to-morrow 
 
 evening 
 
 at 
 
 seven be at your post, ready to strike to 
 the earth my pursuer." 
 - " It is settled," said Walsingham. " At 
 seven o'clock, a stroke with the hand " — 
 
 " Must level with the earth the second 
 person who shall pass from the house." 
 
 " 'Tis well. Your hand. Now, let us 
 return." 
 
 They rose from the seat, and proceeded 
 onward through the wood in the direction 
 of the hut. 
 
 All this time, Marion had been trem- 
 bling behind the tree, fearful of being dis- 
 covered. She could hardly believe her 
 ears, when she heard the pair talk in so 
 cool and deliberate a manner of their in- 
 tention to murder a fellow-creature. And 
 who was to be their victim ? — Evidently 
 the possessor of the wide domains on 
 which they had built their hut, and to 
 whose forbearance they owed their means 
 of living. 
 
 From the many strange scenes that had 
 met her eyes, during the twenty years she 
 had followed the fortunes of Walsingham, 
 Marion was prepared for much, but cer- 
 tainly not for murder. She had seen her 
 estates sold, and the purchase-money lost 
 at the gambling table by her unprincipled 
 
34 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 husband ; she had encountered want with 
 him ; she had borne curses from his lips, 
 and blows from his hands ; but all these 
 bad deeds of his were trifles when weighed 
 in the balance with the one to which he 
 had but now given his ready acquiescence. 
 Murder ! She repeated the word aloud, 
 and the very echo of her own voice star- 
 tled her. Something must be done, and 
 speedily, to prevent the completion of 
 their base desio-Q- Once she thouQ-ht of 
 flvins: to the manor-house on the instant, 
 and confessing all she had heard ; but the 
 next moment this was over-ruled by the 
 thouo-ht that she would thus denounce, as 
 an intended murderer, her own husband. 
 At last she resolved to wait patiently till 
 the next evening, and, by her presence 
 at the manor-house, at the appointed hour 
 of seven, shame Esdaile and Walsing- 
 ham from the commission of the crimes 
 they had meditated. Thus resolved, she 
 rose from the ground, and hurried off by 
 a cross path, in order to reach the hut be- 
 fore them. 
 
 Marion passed a sleepless night, and 
 all next day there was a fearful anxiety 
 hovering around her heart ; but she hap- 
 pily succeeded in concealing it from her 
 companions. The day drew towards a 
 close, and the evening came on apace. As 
 the clock struck six, she saw Esdaile de- 
 part, and, shortly afterwards, he was fol- 
 lowed by Walsingham. Now was the time 
 for action. Mrs. Esdaile, the virago of 
 the past evening, with the illumined coun- 
 tenance, was fast asleep on a pallet bed 
 in the corner of the hut, on which she had 
 sunk down, quite overcome with the 
 strength of the remains of the brandy she 
 had purchased the preceding evening at 
 Melton. Everything was propitious ; so, 
 wrapping her mantle closely around her, 
 she proceeded towards the manor-house. 
 Concealing herself behind a sun-dial on 
 the lawn in front of the house, she had not 
 remained Ions; there before she saw Esdaile 
 advance from one of the sides of the 
 building, and walk past the very place 
 
 where she lay concealed. Presently he 
 was joined by Walsingham. 
 
 " The coast's clear," Esdaile said, sotto 
 voce, to Walsingham. " Conceal yourself 
 behind yonder tree ;" pointing to one a 
 short distance off. " I have," he added, 
 ^' succeeded in unclosing one of the lower 
 windows of the right vring of the house, 
 and everything shall shortly be ours. Now, 
 to your post. Here is the knife." 
 
 So saying, he placed a dagger in Wal- 
 singham's hand ; and, as Walsingham pro- 
 ceeded to take his station at the tree, Ma- 
 rion, on whom this conversation had not 
 been lost, glided swiftly along, unobserved, 
 to the rio;ht wing; of the building, one of 
 the windows of which, as Esdaile had said, 
 was open. Without loss of a moment, 
 Marion crept into the room, and she had 
 just time to secret herself in one of its 
 darkest corners, when Esdaile entered, 
 and carefully closing the window, made 
 towards the door, which he opened, and 
 Marion was again alone in the room. Her 
 first intent had been to creep softly to- 
 wards the room in which the only occupant 
 of the house was, and, havino' locked him 
 in, to carry off the key, thereby prevent- 
 ing him from discovering Esdaile, and 
 endangering his own life ; but this the 
 quick advance of Esdaile had prevented. 
 She still resolved, however, to attempt 
 this, notwithstanding the chance she ran 
 of encountering Esdaile ; and had already 
 got the length of the centre lobby of the 
 house, from which broad stairs to the flat 
 above ascended, when she heard a noise 
 in an apartment overhead, a shuffling of 
 feet, a pistol fired, the sudden opening of 
 a door, and some one rush along the pas- 
 sage above. She saw the flutter of a ear- 
 ment at the top of the stairs, and heard 
 the sound of a voice with which she thought 
 she was familiar. Then, and only then, 
 came the wish of savins; herself from dis- 
 covery by flight. It was almost impossi- 
 ble for her to retrace her steps the way 
 she had come ; for many winding passages 
 intervened between the place where she 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 35 
 
 tten was and the window at which she had 
 entered ; but the large door at the end of 
 the lobby promised her the ready means 
 of escape. To this she flew. The key 
 was in the lock. One turn of it and she 
 was free. Scarcely had she gained the 
 outside, when a man was close upon her 
 heels. She had ran forward but a few 
 paces, when she heard a scream behind 
 her, and the report of a pistol ; and, 
 turning round, more from terror than sur- 
 prise, she beheld two bodies stretched 
 upon the ground, writhing in the agonies 
 of death. In pity, she approached, and, 
 to her horror, beheld the forms of her 
 husband and his villanous companion. 
 Foiled in his attempt upon the life of the 
 owner of the manor-house, who had dis- 
 covered him in the act of abstractins: some 
 part of his valuable plate, Esdaile had 
 rushed from the house, glad to escape 
 with his life ; but his accomplice, Wal- 
 singham, having received strict injunctions 
 from him to plunge his dagger in the heart - 
 
 of the second person who came forth from 
 the house, had obeyed those injunctions 
 to the letter, and stabbed Esdaile to the 
 heart. A loaded pistol was in Esdaile's 
 hand at the moment, which, as he fell, 
 accidentally went off, and Walsinghara was 
 instantly stretched a corpse beside him. 
 
 Little more remains to be told. Marion 
 lost no time in unfolding to the gentleman 
 whose life had been attempted, and who 
 now came from the house, all the particu- 
 lars of the intended robbery and murder. 
 He listened to her story with the utmost 
 patience ; and, when he had heard all, he 
 was unbounded in his thanks towards her 
 for having saved his life. He promised 
 to befriend her, and he afterwards did so. 
 The sound of his voice had seemed fa- 
 miliar to Marion ; and when the blaze of 
 light within his manor-house revealed his 
 features to her, she almost fainted when 
 she saw them, for she knew she again stood 
 by the side of Arthur Warrington. 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST 
 
 There is a splendid book written, called 
 " The Enthusiast ;" but, though it dis- 
 covers the author's talents, to my appre- 
 hension and feelings, it fails, after a few 
 pages, to keep alive the attention — and 
 why ? Just because the author, portray- 
 ing the general character of enthusiasm, 
 steps beyond himself and his own personal 
 observations, and talks about the workings 
 of the principle in a new and untried com- 
 bination of circumstances. From the law 
 which regulates projectiles in aere, he 
 reasons to what should regulate them in 
 vacuo; he reasons from things seen to 
 things unseen ; and then leaves both him- 
 self and his reader in the mud and the 
 
 mist of mere supposition. But in what I 
 mean to say of enthusiasm, I pledge my- 
 self to state nothing but what I have felt 
 or seen ; and I shall separate this princi- 
 ple from all others, only marking its influ- 
 ence when it is in a state of intensity, as 
 one marks the electric spark, not in the 
 cloud or the machine, but as it passes 
 from one locality to another. Enthusi- 
 asm is, in fact, the electrical element of 
 life. It is more or less everywhere, and 
 often where it is least suspected. It 
 bursts forth, occasionally, in the character 
 of the warrior, the scholar, the poet, the 
 speculator ; but it remains as substantial- 
 ly, perhaps, though not so ostensibly, in 
 
36 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the bosom of the parent, the husband, the 
 wife, the child, the friend, the kinsman. 
 The tradesman is an enthusiast if he 
 hopes to succeed ; the merchant, the la- 
 borer, the mechanic. I have seen a shoe- 
 maker as enthusiastic in making bis shoes 
 fit neatly without pinching, as the scholar 
 would be in divining the meaning of a 
 difficult passage. Without enthusiasm 
 man had never been what he is. It found 
 him in the world naked, and it clothed 
 him ; houseless, and it covered him ; de- 
 fenceless, and it armed him. It run him 
 up through the pastoral, the agricultural, 
 to the commercial state. It composed the 
 " Idylls " of Theocritus, the " Georgics " 
 of Virgil, and the " Fleece " of Dyer. 
 Without this there had been no shepherds 
 to sing, and no poets to sing of their sing- 
 ino't no husbandmen to labor, and no 
 Virgils and Hesiods to speak of their la- 
 bor ; and no argonautic expeditions, and 
 no sacred bard to celebrate their pursuit of 
 the golden fleece, commerce. But though 
 all this is true in the enlarged and diluted 
 sense of the word, it is not so in that sense 
 in which the term is commonly understood. 
 He is quite an enthusiast in the pursuit of 
 knowledge — of a fox — or of hoped-for dis- 
 covery — or of fame — or of fortune — any- 
 body knows to be terms applied to an un- 
 usually spirited pursuit of any or all of 
 these. But the enthusiasm of which I 
 speak is more limited still. It is a glow 
 which originates and cools in the same 
 bosom — which has no view beyond itself. 
 It is not a mean to an end, but mean and 
 end in one. Look at that boy — ^he is 
 never to be found, at a leisure hour, with- 
 out a fishing-rod in his hand ; at that 
 other youth — his book is his constant com- 
 panion by the fountain and the hill ; at 
 that religious devotee — prayer and Bible- 
 reading are his heaven ; at that butcher's 
 boy, killing a lamb — ^his father has put the 
 knife mto his hand to please him — he is 
 an enthusiast in butchery, his passion feeds 
 on itself — it is lilie virtue its own reward — 
 he cares not for cutlets or brown roasts. 
 
 ; nay, 
 -thousch she 
 
 Having thus narrowed the field to a 
 class, I shall now select an individual, and 
 that individual shall be one with whom I 
 have had many opportunities of becoming 
 well acquainted. Curious reader, it is not 
 you, nor your brother Robert, nor your 
 uncle x\ndrew, nor any, so far as I know, 
 of your kindred — it is " myself." And 
 how has enthusiasm wrought in me } That 
 I am just going to tell you. It has made 
 me, in the first place, miserable — most 
 miserable ; and I'll tell you how. I took 
 it into my head, when a boy of about eight 
 or nine years of age, that my mother — 
 my only living parent — -was mortal 
 that she was so old and infirm 
 was not more than fifty, and in perfect 
 health — that she would drop down dead 
 even before my eyes. I followed her 
 wherever she went ; held on by her apron 
 string, roaring aloud most mournfully, and 
 shedding, besides, a world of tears. In 
 vain did my kind mother endeavor to rally 
 me, to reason me, to scold me, and even 
 to chastise me out of my dream — it had 
 taken such hold of my imagination, that, 
 sleeping, or waking, it was there. When 
 my mother travelled anywhere abroad, I 
 was sure to be after her like a domestic 
 cur. When she went to offer up her pri- 
 vate oblations to a throne of mercy, I crept 
 in under her plaid, and heard every audi- 
 ble aspiration. In my sleep she was still 
 before me as I had seen my grandmother 
 — the lips parted, the eyes open, and set 
 in night — it was horrible — I started into 
 real life, and wept aloud. I rushed into 
 my mother's apartment, felt her face all 
 over, and cried bitterly. Reader, have 
 you always been made of pot-mettle .'* 
 Have you never experienced any such 
 nervous enthusiasm as this ? Have you 
 been at all times a child of realities — a 
 very steady, thinking, prudent person ; 
 slept like a top, eat like a raven, and talk- 
 ed to the amazement even of the minister 
 himself ? You may be a steady good per- 
 son now. You may even be married, with 
 a family of thirteen children. You may 
 
\ ■ 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 37 
 
 have succeeded in the world, and feathered 
 your nest. You may liaye presided well 
 at various public dinners, and 
 
 " Never wrote 
 '' One line which, dying, you w^uld wish to blot " — 
 
 and for this simple and "best of all reasons, 
 that you have never written, as far as the 
 public is concerned, any lines at all. You 
 may be a sound-headed lawyer, a calculat- 
 ing merchant, an honest shopkeeper, or, 
 what is still more commendable, because 
 more rare, an honest judge. You may 
 sole shoes or make great-coats to a nicety 
 — fabricate chairs, or nails, or pins, or 
 periwigs, to a thought ; but you are no 
 enthusiast. Do you see that poor maniac, 
 who is just receiving a visit from his mo- 
 ther in his cell — whose eyes are turned up 
 in wild uproar to the roof of his dungeon 
 — and who, in the damp icicles, is apostro- 
 phising sun, moon, and stars, Venus, Ju- 
 piter, and Aldubaran ? That emaciated 
 form of scarcely twenty years of age — 
 which a weeping mother clasps, and whom 
 a frenzied son convulsively strains to his 
 bare and fieshless breast — that is Fergu- 
 son the poet, the prince of enthusiasts — 
 he at whose genius Burns lighted that 
 torch which has filled the world with light ! 
 Do you mark that form sitting amongst 
 the sands of Syracuse ? The city is taken 
 by the Roman armies. The enemy are 
 within the walls ; pillage and murder are 
 the order of the hour. But what is that 
 to him ? — he is only an enthusiast. The 
 soldier has challenged him to surrender ; 
 his sword is uplifted, and the challenge is 
 repeated. He heeds it not ; the sword 
 descends — and the greatest mathematician, 
 the most complete enthusiast which the 
 world has ever seen, lies before you, a 
 gashed and mangled corpse — the world ! 
 its wonders, its atoms, its various forma- 
 tions ! the laws — the eternal laws of its 
 construction and form. There is one who 
 sung sweetly — oh, how divinely ! There 
 is one who sung sublimely — yes, as one 
 overpowered with the Spirit of Him who 
 said, " Let there be light, and there was 
 
 light ;" but the cord which was overstrain- 
 ed is snapped, and the bow is unstrung ; 
 the pressure upon the delicate fibres of 
 the brain has been too much, and the 
 building of God has given way. Poor 
 Lucretius, the disease of which thou didst 
 expire was '' enthusiasm." 
 
 But it is time to shift the scene — to re- 
 sort to that exquisite happiness, and ex- 
 tensive benefit to society, which enthusi- 
 asm is calculated to produce. Poetry is 
 the language of nature. All languages 
 originated in poetry — the ballad is the 
 mother of all living and dead books. 
 Whether it be repeated in the shape of 
 Fescenine catches, on the banks of the 
 Tiber — of glorious Epic, on those of the 
 Scamander — of chivalrous narrative, by 
 the rapid Rhone, or sweet Liger — whether 
 it employ the time, and the enthusiastic 
 efibrts of the bard, the troubadour, the 
 harper, or the minstrel — whether it re- 
 sound through the recesses of Pindus, of \ 
 Arcady, or of Yarrow — still, still the bal- j 
 lad presents the first germ of literature, j 
 What are the earlier pages of Livy's His- ! 
 tory, but popular ballads, connected and 
 narratived ? — what the history of our own 
 Scotland — of her Bruces, and Wallaces, ' 
 and all her many and valorous achieve- 
 ments — but ballads ? And — 
 
 '■ How canst thon resist the boundless store 
 
 Of charms, whicn nattire to her votaries yield — 
 The warbling woodland — tlie resounding shore — 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields — 
 
 Oh. how canst thou resist, and hope to be forgiven?" 
 
 But who can or does resist ? — Not even 
 the robber Moor, who soliloquizes so po- 
 etically the setting sun. Not 
 
 '• The swain who, journeying homeward, from 
 A day's long labor, feels 
 The form of beauty smiling on his soul 1" 
 
 Poetry is spread as widely through the hu- 
 man heart, as is electricity through all the 
 works of nature. Man can no more help 
 being poetical, than he can new-model his 
 frame. But what is the love, the passion 
 of poetry, but enthusiasm — enthusiasm, 
 which converts everything it looks upon 
 
38 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 into l)eauty and sublimity. The man is 
 born desert and lonely — and is there no 
 beauty in solitude, no grandeur in expan- 
 sion ? The mountains are highland, wild, 
 heathy, and tempest-beaten — and is there 
 no sublimity in their cliffs, their scarred 
 fronts, and scarred sides ? The landscape 
 is covered with wood, or there is at least 
 a pleasing alternation of forest and glade, 
 of peopled levels and wooded hills — and 
 does not the soul nestle softly and lovingly 
 amidst these pleasing varieties ? But you 
 are making faces, and there is something 
 like an incipient yawn beginning to travel 
 over your beauteous lips, my dearest ma- 
 dam. Well, I'll have done, with advising 
 you to wed the " spirit of poetry," if you 
 wish to be completely happy. You need 
 not write poems, ma'am — that is not ne- 
 cessary. Livy never wrote poetry, and 
 yet he is every inch a poet ; Robertson 
 never wrote verse, and yet he is essentially 
 poetical. Witness Mexico and Montezu- 
 ma. " Am I lying on a bed of roses .^" 
 — There, for example, is me, now — ay, 
 just me — I am every inch a poet ! and yet, 
 with the exception of a few things which 
 need not be excepted, I never wrote any 
 poetry : — yet, I see you want a story, and 
 you say, am I not reading " The Tales of 
 the Borders, and of Scotland.^" — I cry 
 you mercy, and shall give you the results 
 of my enthusiasm. 
 
 When in Edinburgh, at the College, 
 while others prolonged the debauch, it 
 might be, till two or three of a fine moon- 
 light night, I have stolen away about twelve, 
 taken my course through the King's Park 
 to the echoing rock, and from thence to 
 that long hollow valley of Bagdad, which 
 runs betwixt Arthur Seat and Salisbury 
 Craigs, and there I have seen the Island 
 of Inchkeith lying, like a glittering dia- 
 mond, on the face of the deep, and the 
 silver sea, and the hazy shores of Fife, 
 and the fleecy heavens, and the stars, and 
 the " bonny lady moon," and two figures 
 in the moonlight ; they are walking away 
 from me, and are busily engaged in con- 
 
 versation — they do not perceive me — I 
 will ensconce myself behind this large 
 stone till I see what may happen. They 
 have now sat down on the greensward, and 
 1 hear their voices very much elevated. The 
 woman is reproaching the man in loud and 
 angry tones — the man makes no reply ^ 
 or if he does, it is in an under tone — Ha ! 
 he has sprung upon the woman all at once, 
 like a tiger, and she screams " Murder, 
 murder !" aloud. Shall I allow a poor 
 woman to be murdered in the solitude of 
 nature, without making an effort, even at 
 the risk of my own life, to save her t My 
 resolution, nerved by the wine I had drunk, 
 was taken in an instant — I sprang forward, 
 crying loudly to my companions to assist 
 me. When the horrible object understood 
 how things were going, and imagining, no 
 doubt, that there were more than one wit- 
 ness of its horrible doings, it took to its 
 heels with th« speed of lightning, I did 
 not pursue ; in fact, I had no inclination 
 to do so, it was sufficient for me if I could 
 save life — I did not wish to take it, either 
 personally or legally. When I went up 
 to the poor woman, she was all astonish- 
 ment, and her first accents were uttered 
 in thanksgiving to Almighty God for send- 
 ing me into the desert for her rescue. I 
 found that, although the villain had clutch- 
 ed her by the throat, he had not had time 
 to suffocate her. Her throat was ind-eed 
 sore from the pressure, and she breathed 
 for some time with difficulty ; but there 
 were no deadly symptoms about her. 
 What a mysterious Providence is about 
 us ! — and we often know it not. I had 
 orio-inally no intention of taking a moon- 
 light walk that evening, or rather morn- 
 in£j, had it not been to avoid the imperti- 
 nence of a fellow-member of the Dialectic 
 Society, who manifestly wished, in his 
 cups, to fasten a quarrel upon me. I 
 stepped out from Young's, and was off. I 
 was manifestly the messenger of Heaven, 
 and could not help regarding myself with 
 a kind of reverence. The poor woman, 
 who was in fact the wife of this worthless 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 39 
 
 man, gave me her history, to the follow- 
 ing purpose : — 
 
 " That brute, as you very properly call 
 him, is my husband, and was once as kind 
 and affectionate to me as L could wish. 
 Ours was what is called a pure love mar- 
 riage, for I was born to better circum- 
 stances and prospects than, from my pre- 
 sent condition and appearance, you may 
 well imagine.'' Here the poor woman 
 shed tears, and proceeded — " I was the 
 daughter of a small proprietor in the 
 neighborhood of Durham, where the 
 Princess of Wales' regiment of Light 
 Dragoons was raised, and was then lying, 
 under the command of Lord Darlington. 
 We — that is to say, my father, my mother, 
 my sister and myself — used to go frequently 
 into a field adjoining the city, and see this 
 really handsome regiment reviewed, and 
 go through their exercise. One day there 
 was a mock battle represented, in the very 
 field adjoining to my father's house. Seve- 
 ral regiments were collected together, 
 from Newcastle and elsewhere, for the 
 purpose. It was to be a great show ; and 
 the whole town of Durham, as well as all 
 the country round, were congregated to 
 see the battle. Cannons were fired, 
 charges of cavalry were made, and a de- 
 tachment of the Darlington troop rode in 
 pursuit of the supposed enemy, past our 
 door. My father and I were at the upper 
 window when the troop came dashing 
 alone:, cleariuo; fences, and SDrino-ino; over 
 ditches in the finest style imaginable. 
 Just as they came opposite to my father's 
 door, a pig, which had escaped from its 
 confinement in the back court, dashed 
 hcadlono; forward amonjxst the feet of the 
 horsos. One of the horses fell ; and the 
 rider, having pitched on his head, was 
 S3emingly killed on the spot. He was 
 immediately carried into our house, and 
 surgical aid was at hand. It was a dislo- 
 cation of the neck bone, and was immedi- 
 ately put to rights ; but the patient was 
 bled, and ordered to be kept quiet for 
 some days. I natm-ally became the young 
 
 gentleman's nurse ; for he was the son of 
 a poor but titled family in the neighbor- 
 hood of Darlington. Mr. Fitzwilliam was 
 a handsome man, about my own age ; but 
 he was penniless, and a soldier of fortune. 
 My father, early seeing the danger of my 
 remaining in the way of temptation, had 
 me sent off to a grand house in the neigh- 
 borhood of Newcastle. But William 
 Fitzwilliam had won my heart, and, in 
 spite of all watchings and lookings, we were 
 man and wife in less than a fornight after 
 my departure for Newcastle. 
 
 " We were married at Gretna Green ; 
 and I have accompanied him ever since, 
 through Carlisle and Dumfries, Ayr, Glas- 
 gow, and ultimately to Jock's Lodge, 
 where the regiment is now lying. He has 
 taken lodgings for me in Edinburgh ; but, 
 of late, has sadly deserted me. I have 
 been enabled, by taking up linen, and sew- 
 ing articles for the ladies' exhibition, to do 
 something in aid of our scanty funds. But 
 William has of late undergone a sad 
 change. He has become addicted to 
 gambling ; has even introduced improper 
 characters, both male and female, into my 
 presence ; and has talked particularly in 
 his cups about a divorce and separation. 
 He wishes me^ he says, to divorce him ; 
 and takes every method of giving me suf- 
 ficient grounds for so doing ; but, with all 
 his errors and vices, i love him still, nor 
 can I think, now that I have time to reflect 
 on it, he would have murdered me out- 
 right, even though you had not so provi- 
 dentially interfered. He has of late 
 succeeded to a title, by the death of an 
 uncle, who has disinherited him, and left 
 his vast property past him. This preyed 
 upon his spirits of late ; and I have reason 
 to know that he has been making love, and 
 even offers of marriage, to a rich widow 
 lady, who dwells not far from York Place, 
 Edinburgh. But my marriage lines lie 
 sadly in his way ; and, it was to attain by 
 force, w^hat he could not otherwise, that 
 he had almost, and, but for you, would have 
 perhaps altogether murdered me, a few 
 
40 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 minutes ago. Poor William ! my heart still 
 bleeds for him ; but I will never give up, 
 whilst I live, the only means which I have of 
 proving myself an honest woman." 
 
 All Edinburgh rung next morning with 
 
 the news — Lord M had shot himself 
 
 dead in his bedroom. 
 
 In the year 1831, I had occasion to be 
 several days in Durham. It occurred to 
 me, one day, whilst I was sauntering about 
 the Cathedral, that the house, where pro- 
 bably still lived the father of the poor, 
 
 unfortunate Mrs. or rather Lady M , 
 
 might be in the neighborhood. I made 
 inquiry ; and, without much difl&culty, 
 found it out. From what I learned in the 
 neighborhood, the poor woman had never 
 taken up her husband's title. Her father, 
 on hearing of her husband's tragical end, 
 had relented, and taken her home to keep 
 his house, and comfort him in his old age. 
 I asked for her father, and was shown into 
 a neat parlor, where the old man sat, com- 
 fortably pillowed, but terribly pained with 
 gout and a complication of diseases. I in- 
 troduced myself as an acquaintance of 
 Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was immediately 
 sent for, and entered the parlor. She did 
 not know me, nor was it wonderful ; for, 
 as I went to the country next day after 
 the night adventure, I had no opportunity 
 of calling upon her. Indeed, I should 
 scarcely have known her either — her dress 
 and manner were so much more imposing 
 than they had been at our first and only 
 interview. However, upon my referring 
 to the circumstances, she immediately 
 took me by the hand, burst into tears, and, 
 presenting me to her father, who was al- 
 most blind — " Papa," said she, " this is 
 the gentleman who saved my life." I had 
 the old man's blessing. A bottle of home- 
 made wine was called for and discussed, 
 and I was pressed to comeback to dinner ; 
 which, however, I politely refused, for I 
 did not know how far my enthusiastic tem- 
 perament might have gone, in the case of 
 a truly beautiful woman, whom I had saved 
 from death, and whose gratitude led her 
 
 to think very favorably of me. I have not 
 heard of her lately ; but mean to write to 
 my brother-in-law, who lives in Durham, 
 about her, and to ascertain whether she is 
 still living or dead ; whether she is yet 
 unmarrried, or has again ventured to face 
 the blacksmith. 
 
 Such was one of my moonlight adven- 
 tures ; which, if you are so disposed, you 
 are at liberty to denominate a " matter of 
 moonshine." But my enthusiasm has not 
 been limited to moonbeams. I am the 
 mountain child, and wedded even up to 
 this hour to the mountain-land, with all 
 its wild, striking, and expanding associa- 
 tions. To meet a fair maiden in vl fair is 
 pleasant, as also to replenish her lap with 
 sweetmeats and trinkets. To get " a can- 
 ny hour at een, your arms about your 
 deary," is snug, comfortable, and some- 
 thing more. Bm-ns prefers " rigs of bar- 
 ley," and the " green rush bushes," as a 
 courting parlor ; whilst, 
 
 " Last night, in my late rambles, 
 All in the Isle of Skye, 
 I met a lovely creature 
 Up in the mountains high." 
 
 Now, the Isle of Skye, and its high 
 mountains, are entire strangers to me ; but 
 I am well acquainted with two pretty de- 
 cent hills, not above twenty miles from 
 Dumfries, called Queensberry, little and 
 hig ; and, amidst their elevated and re- 
 tired glens, the following incident took 
 place. I have from my boyhood been 
 distractedly fond of fishing ; and, up to 
 this hour, whenever I visit my native glen, 
 the mania returns; and, though things 
 are sadly changed, and trouts are diminish- 
 ed both in numbers and size, yet still, in 
 spite of all disadvantages, I fish. It was on 
 an excursion on my way (whilst a young 
 man of twenty, from college), that I found 
 myself, one dark and misty da}--, amidst 
 the deep and mazy windings of the Brawn. 
 I was quickly and successively basketing 
 trout after trout, humming all the while 
 some old Scotch sonnet, and calling in my 
 little dog, jDon, from the sheep who were 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 41 
 
 pasturing on the adjoining hill, called the 
 Dod, when a voice from the depths of the 
 mist and the solitude reached my ear. It 
 was a voice of wo and deep lamentation. 
 Having chid Don's impertinence in giving 
 tongue somewhat too freely, I found, seat- 
 ed upon a grey stone, and weeping aloud, 
 a young woman, about my own age, with 
 dark blue eyes, and a countenance of the 
 most prepossessing expression. She sat 
 beside an infant, which she had deposited 
 on a bed of collected fern or braken, and 
 who was fast asleep. When she saw me, 
 she started, and seemed disposed to fly ; 
 but when I used my means to reassure her, 
 she ventured to accost me, by informing 
 me, that she had lost her way — that she 
 was nursery-maid at Mitchelslacks, and 
 had wandered that morning with her 
 charge beyond her accustomed range, and 
 the mist coming suddenly on, she found 
 it impossible to retrace her steps. I 
 thought myself quite in possession of the 
 information which she wanted, and told 
 her that I would see her and her little 
 charge safely and immediately home. So, 
 giving up my sport for the time I took up 
 the sleeping infant, and immediately ad- 
 dressed myself, accompanied by the fair 
 wanderer, to the journey. We were seve- 
 ral miles distant from Mitchelslacks ; but, 
 as I considered myself as familiar with the 
 ground, I struck immediately over the 
 pathless hill, by what I termed a near cut, 
 instead of retracing the stream for a cou- 
 ple of miles, and then crossing the Dod 
 by a cart track. The child awoke, and 
 findino; itself in strano-e hands, screamed 
 violently ; so I was soon compelled to 
 place the infant in the loveliest bosom I 
 had ever seen, I felt my frame tremble 
 all over, as I came into contact with pret- 
 ty Peggy's person ; and yet, for all the 
 
 wealth of old Q , I would not have 
 
 even conceived anything which might oc- 
 casion alarm to so beautiful and manifestly 
 so innocent a creature. Yet 1 could not 
 keep my eyes off her, and found out, in 
 spite of a dark and crawling mist, that her 
 
 frame was perfect symmetry, and rounded 
 into that ripened plumpness which be- 
 speaks the fully matured woman. We 
 conversed freely as we travelled ; and my 
 romantic feelings became so excited with 
 my position, that I thought but occasion- 
 ally, and then indistinctly, of the direction, 
 right or wrong, in which we were ad- 
 vancing. Peggy, from time to time, ad- 
 monished me, that she trusted to me alone, 
 as she was totally unacquainted with the 
 hill. Having attained, at last, the sum- 
 mit of the steep, 1 expected to have found 
 a cairn of stones, and, alongside of it, a 
 shepherd's shieling or turf hut, where he 
 reposed at noon-day, and shared his bread 
 and milk with his faithful curs ; but, no 
 such shieling or cairn were to be seen. It 
 then became manifest to me, all at once, 
 that I, as well as my fair companion of the 
 mist, had lost my way, and that, unless 
 the day, which was still becoming darker 
 and darker, should clear up, we should be 
 in danger of increasing instead of lessen- 
 ing the distance betwixt us and Mitchel- 
 slacks. To increase our embarrassment, 
 the child cried continually, evidently from 
 hunger, and great drops of rain came 
 down like hail-stones amidst the close and 
 crawling mist. It was evident that a 
 thunder storm was brooding — nor were 
 we long kept in suspense ; for, all at once, 
 the mist was kindled into flame around us, 
 and a sharp, smart crack, followed by the 
 roar, of a thousand hills, told us that we 
 were in the very centre of the electric 
 cloud. Poor Peggy sank down at once, 
 overcome with terror ; whilst I, immedi- 
 ately and intuitively, squatted down be- 
 side her, clasping her to my bosom, child 
 and all. I may truly say, with Patie, in 
 regard to another lovely Peggy — 
 
 '■ Whilst hard and fast I held her in my grips, 
 IMy very soul cam" louping to my lips." 
 
 But the awful flash and peal were repeat- 
 ed, and then, in very truth, and not meta- 
 phorically, 
 
 " Down rushed a deluge of sonorous hail." 
 
 Peggy fainted outright, and the child 
 
3^ 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 screamed itself into hysterics, when, all 
 at once, a couple of shaggy shepherd's 
 dogs gave tongue in the neighborhood. A 
 young, yellow-haired shepherd lad stood 
 over us in an instant ; and, guessing at 
 once how matters really stood, had us all 
 removed, as soon as Peggy had recovered 
 her senses, into the small shieling, in the 
 immediate neighborhood of which we were 
 unconsciously wandering. We had to 
 stoop, and enter upon our hands and 
 knees ; and, when we were all stowed 
 away, there was not an inch of houseroom 
 which was not occupied either by human 
 beings or dogs. But, though sitting or 
 rather lying on rushes, these rushes were 
 dry, and our humble shelter warded off 
 the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder 
 cloud gradually took to the top of the 
 higher Queensberry, and left us with a 
 clear sunny day, and two miles to walk to 
 the child's home. The truth was, that 
 the family at Mitchelslacks had become 
 alarmed by the absence of maid and child, 
 and had sent nearly half a score of shep- 
 herds, and a full score of dogs, to the 
 hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery ; 
 whilst Mr. and Mrs. Harkness, the parents, 
 were in a state which may more easily be 
 imagined than described. All were now 
 well ; and I accompanied the young shep- 
 herd, with his sweetheart — for such I soon 
 discovered they were — home, and had the 
 happiness, by running on before, to be the 
 first to announce the safety of their child 
 to the worthy and distracted parents. 
 They had, indeed, given up both the nurse 
 and child for lost, and their despair had 
 been at least equal to their joy, when I 
 ran forward and threw the child in the 
 mother's lap. Now, who could doubt that 
 enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, 
 and shining in the tear-wet eye of the 
 mother, as she pressed the little lost one 
 to her bosom } It was verily. But, after 
 all I have said of the nature of this extra- 
 ordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever 
 experienced in a stronger and purer form 
 than in that of joy. I care nothing for 
 
 the cause — it may be any one you please. 
 All I insist for is, that it shall be capable 
 of stimulating, or rather exciting — for the 
 former is a phrenological word — the mind 
 of the individual, however stupid, obese, 
 or phlegmatic to the boiling point of that 
 most intense species of human happi- 
 ness. All the many forms of the feeling 
 seem to tend to this as the point of their 
 realization. Pythagoras and his proposi- 
 tion, Argand and his lamp, Mungo Park 
 and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs. Hark- 
 ness and her child, and the child, proba- 
 bly, next day with a butterfly, are all 
 instances of the feeling in the point of 
 gratification. But I have been again wan- 
 dering from my story — all enthusiasm 
 together ; for there was love in the affair, 
 which many insist upon being the strong- 
 est, if not the purest example that can be 
 presented of this mysterious and pervading 
 essence. Those who think so can take 
 their own view ; I retain mine ; and it is 
 very probable that we are both wrong ; 
 and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly ad- 
 dressed myself, will put us right, by tell- 
 ing us that poetry is the only genuine and 
 pure form in which this moral electricity 
 can exhibit itself. Let it be as you say, 
 though I would advise you to be on your 
 
 guard, against your friend Miss , who 
 
 lost her lover last week, and will insist 
 that hope is the soul of the feeling, and 
 that, when that is gone, enthusiasm has 
 no more chance of getting into the mind 
 or heart than I have of getting into your 
 favor by this digression from a story of 
 love, originating in, or perfected by mist, 
 one of the most romantic mediums of the 
 tender passion. So, to make a speedy 
 conclusion, about a fortnight after this in- 
 cident, I was again at my old sport, when 
 I was accosted by my young friend, the 
 shepherd, who now figured in holiday at- 
 tire, and informed that as this was his 
 wedding day, my company would be ac- 
 ceptable o'^er by yonder at two o'clock. I 
 pursued my sport till then, and, in the 
 old cha'mer of IMitchclslacks, saw Joseph 
 
JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. 
 
 43 
 
 Robson and Margaret Gibson made man 
 and wife. There was neither dancing nor 
 revelment of any kind, but there was a 
 plentiful meal, many songs, and as much 
 punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the 
 company chose to make use of. All went 
 
 merry as a marriage bell. And now I find 
 I am checked by want of space, at the 
 moment when the jar is fully charged, 
 and the subtle spirit might have exploded 
 in many more pretty coruscations. 
 
 -♦-♦- 
 
 JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN 
 
 OR, THE FATE OF THE HEIR OF RICCON. 
 
 " The black-eyed Juditn. fair and tall, 
 
 Attracted the heir of Riccon Hall. 
 * « * * 
 
 For years and years was Judith known, 
 Glueen of a wild world all her own ; 
 By Wooler Haugh, by silver Till, 
 By Coldstream Bridge, and Flodden Sill. 
 
 Until, at length, one morn when sleet 
 
 Hung frozen round the traveller's feet, 
 
 By a grey ruin on Tweedside, 
 
 The creature laid her down and died." — Border Ballad, 
 
 IMoRE than three hundred years have 
 elapsed since the people called Gipsies 
 first made their appearance in this coun- 
 try ; and, from all that I have been able 
 to trace concerning them, it seems to have 
 been about the same period that a number 
 of their tribes or families proceeded north- 
 wards, and became dwellers and wanderers 
 on the Borders. Their chief places of 
 resort, and where, during the inclemency 
 of winter, they horded or housed together, 
 were, Kirk Yetholm, Rothbury, Hornclifi", 
 Spittal, and Tweedmouth. I believe that 
 there are none of them now in Hornclifi", 
 which, on the bringing in of the moor, 
 ceased to be a refuge for them ; and there 
 are but few in Spittal. But, in Rothbury 
 and Kirk Yetholm, they still abound, and 
 of late years have increased in Tweed- 
 mouth — that is, during the winter season ; 
 
 for they take to the hedges as soon as the 
 primrose appears, and begin their wander- 
 ings. The principal names borne by the 
 difierent tribes in these parts are Faa, 
 Young, Gordon, Bailie, Blyth, Ruthven, 
 and Winter. Their occupations are chief- 
 ly as itinerant muggers or potters, horners 
 or " cuttie-spoon " makers, tinkers or 
 smiths and tin-workers, and makers of be- 
 soms and foot-bases. They are still, with 
 very few exceptions, a wandering and un- 
 lettered race, such as their fathers were 
 when they first entered Britain. At Kirk 
 Yetholm, however — which is their seat of 
 royalty on the Borders, and where they 
 have a lease of the houses in what is called 
 Tinkler Row, for nineteen times nineteen 
 years, at a quit-rent — they have not been 
 so neglectful of the education of their chil- 
 dren as in other parts of the country. 
 
44 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 At the period of their first appearance 
 in this kingdom, the land was overrun with 
 thieves and vagabonds, who, in the severe 
 and sanguinary laws of Queen Elizabeth 
 and her father Harry, were described as 
 
 loyterers'^'' and '■''sturdy beggars;'''' and 
 it is more than probable that many of 
 these, finding the mode of life followed by 
 the gipsies congenial to them, associated 
 with or intermarried amongst them, and 
 so became as a part of them ; and this 
 may account for many calling themselves 
 gipsies, having European, or, I may say, 
 British features. But the real gipsy there 
 is no mistaking — their dark piercing eyes 
 and Asiatic countenance mark them as 
 distinctly as do the eyes and peculiar fea- 
 tures of a Jew. (By the by, I wonder 
 that no searcher after the marvellous has 
 endeavored to prove them to be a remnant 
 of the lost tribes of Israel.) Like the 
 Jews, they are scattered over the whole 
 earth — like them, they are found in every 
 land ; and in every land they remain a dis- 
 tinct people. 
 
 Who they are, or whence they came, 
 are questions involved in considerable 
 mystery. Their being called Gipsies or 
 Egyptians in this country, 1 hold to be a 
 popular error which they themselves pro- 
 pagated. Egypt, from the earliest period, 
 was distinguished above all lands for its 
 soothsayers and diviners ; and, as the chief 
 occupation of the wanderers then was (and 
 in many places still is) fortune-telling, 
 they had cunning enough to profess to be 
 Egyptians, or natives of the land wherein 
 was taught the mysteries of rolling away 
 the clouds which conceal fate and futurity. 
 They have neither the language nor the 
 manners of the Egyptians. No reason 
 ■could be assigned for their leaving the 
 land of the Pharaohs ; and, although the 
 gipsies of the present day profess to be 
 Egyptians, they can bring forward no proof 
 in support of the pretension. From all 
 that I have read concerning them, it seems 
 to me to be clearly proved, that they are 
 natives of Hindostan, where they formed a 
 
 part of the lowest caste of Indians, called 
 Pariahs or Sudors — a class held in detesta- 
 tion and abhorrence by the other castes. 
 That the gipsy clans have a language pe- 
 culiar to themselves, and which they fre- 
 quently speak amongst themselves, is well 
 known. It is not a written language ; and 
 they have endeavored to conceal a know- 
 ledge of it from the people amongst whom 
 they dwell. They have called it gibberish ; 
 and it has been very generally believed to 
 be nothing more than what is usually un- 
 derstood by that term, or that at most it 
 was a sort of slang, similar to the phrases 
 used among thieves. This is an error. So 
 far as those who have examined it have 
 been able to ascertain, the secret language 
 spoken by the British gipsies appears to 
 be, with but trifling corruptions, the same 
 as that which is spoken by the Indian caste 
 of Sudors in Hindostan.* But a stronger 
 proof that the gipsies scattered over Eu- 
 rope derive their origin from the Sudors 
 of India is demonstrated by the facts that 
 the Sudors were the only people who pro- 
 fessed the art of palmistry — that they, 
 like the gipsies, are a wandering race — 
 that their occupations are almost identi- 
 cally the same, being fortune-tellers, dan- 
 cers, and wandering musicians — that the 
 smiths amongst them go about exactly in 
 the same manner as the tinkers in this 
 country — that, like the gipsies, their fa- 
 vorite food is that of animals that have 
 died of disease — that, like them, they have 
 no fixed religion — and like them, they 
 endeavor to conceal their language. And 
 the certainty of their being originally the 
 same people is further strengthened, from 
 the Sudors having fled in thousands from 
 
 *• I shall subjoin a few words as specimens, from the 
 comparative glossaries of Grellmaun and Richardson — 
 Gipsy. Hindostiuiee. English. 
 
 Bebee Beebe An Aunt 
 
 Mutchee Muchee Fish 
 
 Can Kan The Ear 
 
 Gur Ghur A House 
 
 Riah Raye A Lord 
 
 Dai Da'ee Mother 
 
 Mass Mas Food 
 
 Nack Nak The Nose 
 
 Loon Loon Salt 
 
JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. 
 
 45 
 
 India, during the murderous ravages of 
 Timur Beg in 1408, which corresponds 
 with the period of the first appearance of 
 the gipsies in Europe. And that they 
 are not Egyptians is strongly proved by 
 the fact, that there are tribes of them in 
 Egypt, where, as in other countries, they 
 are regarded as strangers and foreigners. 
 
 I may have wearied the patience of the 
 reader with this long and perhaps prosy 
 introduction ; but there may be some to 
 whom it will not be uninteresting, as 
 throwing a light on the probable origin of 
 a singular people, of whom Judith the gip- 
 sy was one. And now to our story. 
 
 One of the chief men amongst the gip- 
 sies on the Borders, at the beginning of 
 the last century, was Lussha Fleckie, who 
 was only inferior in authority among the 
 tribes to King Faa, who dwelt at Kirk 
 Yetholm, and boasted of reigning lord 
 over Si free people. Lussha's avocations, 
 like the avocations of all his brethren, 
 were mere apologies for idleness. He was 
 one day a tinker, on another a grinder, 
 and on a third a wandering piper. He 
 was a man of great stature and uncommon 
 strength, and renowned for his exploits as 
 a fisher and a sportsman. 
 
 The name of his wife was Mariam, and 
 they had a daughter called Judith, who, 
 as she grew up towards womanhood, be- 
 came known throughout Roxburgh and 
 Northumberland as the Gipsy Beauty — or 
 the Beautiful Gipsy. The appellation 
 was not unmeritedly bestowed ; for, 
 though her skin was slightly tinged with 
 the tawny hue of her race, a soul seemed 
 to glow through her regular and lovely 
 features, and the lustre of her dark eyes 
 to throw a radiance over them. She was 
 tall, and her figure was perfect as her face 
 — it was symmetrical and commanding. 
 Yet she was at once conscious of her beau- 
 ty and vain of it, and her parents admi- 
 nistered to her vanity. They had her 
 fingers adorned with trinkets, her neck 
 with bugles ; for Lussha Fleckie, like most 
 of his race, was fond of gold and silver 
 
 ornaments ; and, amongst others, he had 
 in his possession a silver urn, which had 
 been handed down to him through genera- 
 tions, and in which his fathers, as he now 
 did, had deposited the fruits of their spoils 
 and plunder, until it was filled with rich 
 coins as a miser's coffer. He therefore, 
 although a vagrant, was not a poor man, 
 and could afford to deck the charms of his 
 daughter. Judith was early initiated by 
 her mother into the mysteries of the siby- 
 line leaves — her education indeed extend- 
 ed no farther ; and, at the age of fifteen, 
 she was an adept in the art of palmistry. 
 The proudest ladies in broad Northumber- 
 land or fair Roxburghshire, eagerly sub- 
 mitted their hands to the inspection of the 
 beautiful fortune-teller. The searching 
 brightness of her dark eyes seemed to give 
 a prophetic reality to her words ; and, as 
 she caused them to kindle with apparent 
 joy or become transfixed at the discovery 
 of coming wo, her fair and high-born pa- lo- 
 tions have trembled before her, and in- 
 quired— " What is it, Judith.?" And, 
 being a favorite with them all, for they 
 both loved and feared her, her person was 
 bedecked with their cast-off garments. 
 
 It was early in summer when about 
 forty of the Faa people encamped near 
 the foot of the Eildon hills. A few mi- 
 nutes served for the erection of their port- 
 able village, in a secure and sheltered situ- 
 ation, and speedily, supported on pieces 
 of crossed branches, the caldrons swung 
 over the crackling fires, each of which 
 blazed fierce and merrily from between 
 two stones. Savoury exhalations impreg- 
 nated the air, and gave token of a feast. 
 The banquet being spread upon the sward, 
 when it was finished, and the brandy cup 
 had been sent round, Lussha Fleckie 
 took his Northumbrian pipes and began to 
 play a merry reel. Old and young, men, 
 women, and children, started to their feet, 
 and joyous 
 
 " Tripped the light fantastic toe." 
 Judith glided through the midst of them, 
 
46 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Tvith her bright waving tresses falling on 
 her shoulders, as queen of the glad scene. 
 Of her it mig-ht have been said — 
 
 o 
 
 "A foot more light, a step more true, 
 Never from heath-flower dashed the dew ; 
 Even the light harebell raised its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread I" 
 
 H«r partner in the dance was Gemmel 
 Grseme ; and in his veins also flowed gipsy 
 blood. Gemmel was now a youth of twen- 
 ty, and one of the most daring of his race. 
 A passionate enthusiasm marked his dis- 
 position. In agile sports and feats of 
 strength he had no competitor. In these 
 he was what Lussha Fleckie had been. 
 He boasted of his independence, and that 
 he had never placed a finger on the pro- 
 perty of friend or neighbor, nor been de- 
 tected in levying his exactions on a stranger 
 or a foe. His merits were acknowledged 
 by all the tribes on the Borders ; and, 
 though he was not of the royal family of 
 Faas, many looked to him as heir-appa- 
 rent to the sovereignty. He held in 
 princely contempt all trades, professions, 
 and callings, and thought it beneath the 
 dignity of a " lord of creation " to follow 
 them. When, therefore, he accompanied 
 the tribes in their migrations from place 
 to place, he did not, as was the habit of 
 others, assume the occupation of either 
 tinker, grinder, bass-manufacturer, or the 
 profession of a musician — but he went 
 forth with his gun and his hound, or his 
 leister and net, and every preserve, plan- 
 tation, and river, supplied him with food, 
 and the barns of strangers with bread. 
 
 Judith was two years younger than 
 Gemmel Graeme, and he had not looked 
 upon her lovely face with indifference ; for 
 the stronger passions, and the gentler feel- 
 ings of the soul, find a habitation in the 
 breast of the wandering gipsy as in those 
 of other men. He had a bold manly bear- 
 ing, and an expressive countenance. Ju- 
 dith, too, had seen much of his exploits. 
 She bad beheld him to the neck in water, 
 struggle with the strong salmon, raise it 
 up, and cast it on the shore. She, too, 
 
 had witnessed instances of his daring 
 spirit, and in every sport had seen all 
 vanquished who dared to contend with 
 him. Yea, when the scented blossom, 
 like fragrant fleece, overspread the haw- 
 thorn hedge-rows, and the primrose and 
 wild-violet flowered at its roots — when 
 the evening star shone glorious in the 
 west, brightening through the deepening 
 twilight — when the viewless cuckoo sighed 
 " good night" to its mate, and the land- 
 rail took up its evening cry — then have 
 Judith and Gemmel sat together, by the 
 hedge-side, at a distance from the en- 
 campment, with her hand in his. Then 
 he would tell her of the feats he had 
 achieved, of the wrestling matches he had 
 won, or the leaps he had made, and, 
 pressing her hand, add — " But what care 
 I for what I do, or for what others say, 
 when the bright een o' my bonny Judith 
 were na there to reward me wi' a blink o' 
 
 joy!" 
 
 " Ye 're a flatterer, Gemmel," whis- 
 pered she. 
 
 " No, bonniest," answered he, " I deny 
 that ; I am nae flatterer. But if I were, 
 ye are far beyond flattery sic as mine ; 
 and it is nane to say, that to my een ye 
 are bonnier than yon gowden star, that 
 shines by its single seP in the wide hea- 
 vens — and to me ye are dearer than the 
 mountain is to the wild deer, or the green 
 leaves to the singing birds." 
 
 Then he would press his lips to hers, 
 and she blushed but upbraided him not. 
 But, in the character of Judith, as in that 
 of every woman over whose bosom vanity 
 waveth its butterfly wings, there was 
 something of the coquette. She did not 
 at all times meet the affections of Gem- 
 mel with mutual tenderness, though she 
 loved him beyond any one else, and was 
 proud to see him wear her yoke. She 
 had often smiled upon others, while her 
 eyes glanced cold as illuminated ice upon 
 him. Yet never was there one on whom 
 she so smiled that repented not having 
 courted or obtained it. For, as Gem- 
 
JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. 
 
 47 
 
 mel's hand was strong, and his love pas- 
 sionate, so was his jealousy keen and his 
 revenge insatiate. There were cripples 
 in the tribe, who owed their lameness to 
 the hand of Gemmel, because, in some 
 instance, Judith had shown a capricious 
 preference to them while she slighted 
 him. 
 
 Now, as has been said, it was a day of 
 feasting and rejoicing amongst them, and 
 Judith was Gemmel's partner in the dance. 
 Walter, the young heir of Riccon, was 
 riding round the Eildons, with his grey 
 goshawk upon his arm, and his servant 
 followed him ; and hearing sounds of mu- 
 sic and shouts of revelry, he turned in 
 the direction from whence they proceeded. 
 He drew up his horse within a few yards 
 of the merry group, and, from the first 
 glance, the striking figure and the more 
 strikins; features of Judith arrested his 
 attention. His eyes followed her through 
 the winding mazes of the dance. They 
 sought to meet hers. Gemmel Graeme 
 observed him, and a scowl gathered on 
 his brow. When the dance was ended, 
 he led Judith to a green hillock on which 
 her father sat, and approaching the heir 
 of Riccon, inquired fiercely — " What want 
 ye, Sir ? — what look ye at ?" 
 
 " Troth, friend," replied Walter, the 
 Master of Riccon, who was of too courage- 
 ous a temperament to be awed by the face 
 or frown of any man, " I look at yer bon- 
 ny partner, and I want to speak to her, for 
 a lovelier face or a gentler figure my een 
 haena looked on since my mother bore 
 mo." 
 
 " Sir," retorted Gemmel more fiercely, 
 " ye hae yer grey goshawk, yer horses, 
 and yer servant ; I dinna covet them, and 
 dinua ye covet what is mine, and to me 
 mair precious. Away the road ye cam, 
 or ony road you like, but rem.ain not here. 
 Your company isna desired. Is it the 
 manners o' you gentry to break in where 
 ye are uninvited ? Again I warn ye, lohile 
 the earth is green, to turn your horse's 
 head away ! I, Gemmel Graeme, wha 
 
 never vowed revenge but I satisfied it, 
 warn ye !" 
 
 " As well," replied young Walter 
 haughtily, " might you vend your threats 
 upon the rocks that compose those cloven 
 mountains, as waste them upon me. I 
 shall speak wi' your bonny partner." And 
 he struck his spurs into his horse to pro- 
 ceed towards her. 
 
 Gemmel grasped the bridle, and in a 
 moment horse and rider were upon the 
 ground. 
 
 "Gemmel Graeme!" shouted Lussha 
 Fleckie, " is that the welcome ye gie to 
 strangers ^ Foul fa ye ! ye passionate 
 tyke ! — tak yer hands aff" the gentleman, 
 and if he wishes to join in oor merriment 
 he's welcome. Gae, Judith, bring forward 
 the gentle stranger." 
 
 Gemmel withdrew his hand from young 
 Walter's throat ; and, as he did so, he ut- 
 tered wild and bitter words, and flung him- 
 self, as if in carelessness, on the ground, 
 his head resting on his hand. 
 
 Judith, at her father's bidding, went 
 and conducted the heir of Riccon to where 
 her father sat and the late dancers were 
 assembled, and Gemmel was left alone. A 
 brief conversation passed between Lussha 
 and W^alter, during which the latter failed 
 not to express his admiration of Judith. 
 Her father smiled — there was a look of 
 triumph in the eyes of her mother. The 
 pipes again struck up, the dance was re- 
 sumed, and Walter, the heir of Riccon, 
 was the partner of Judith ; while Gemmel 
 Graeme lay upon the ground gazing upon 
 them and gnashing his teeth. 
 
 " We maun see that nae harm come to 
 the young Riccon oot o' this," whispered 
 some of the eldest of the tribe to each other, 
 who had not again joined in the dance, 
 " for Gemmel is kicking his heel upon the 
 ground, an' whistlin' to himseP, and the 
 horse-shoe is on his brow. It was wrong 
 in Lussha to provoke him. There is an 
 ill drink brewing for the young laird. He 
 is dancing owre gunpoother where the 
 touch-fire is creeping to it." 
 
48 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 The dance was ended, and young Wal- 
 ter, taking a costly ring from his finger, 
 placed it on Judith's, and whispered — 
 '■'■ Wear it for my sake." And her checks 
 seemed more lovely as she blushed, smiled, 
 and accepted the gift. 
 
 Gemmel started to his feet as he beheld 
 this. But Walter dashed his spurs into 
 his horse, and riding away, in a few min- 
 utes was out of sight. Gemmel glanced 
 upbraidingly on Judith, and he passed by 
 her parents in sullenness and in silence. 
 
 But the heir of Riccon had not ridden 
 far, when he turned round and said to his 
 servant — " We go now to Melrose, and 
 from thence ye shall go back and watch 
 the movements o' the party we have seen. 
 Mark ye weel the maiden wi' whom I 
 danced and whose marrow ye never saw ; 
 for rather would I that she was lady o' 
 Riccon Ha', than that I shouldna meet 
 her again." 
 
 Shortly after the departure of Walter, 
 some of the tribe, perceiving that what had 
 passed between him and Judith was likely 
 to lead to a quarrel between Lussha 
 Fleckie and Gemmel Graeme, and know- 
 ing, from the nature of both, that such a 
 quarrel would be deadly in its results, pro- 
 posed that the festivities should terminate, 
 and the encampment break up. The pro- 
 posal was carried by a majority of voices ; 
 and even Lussha, though conscious of the 
 reason why it was made, knew so well the 
 fiery and desperate nature of him who was 
 regarded by the tribe as the future hus- 
 band of his daughter, that he brooked his 
 own temper and agreed to it. And, while 
 they began to move their tents, and to 
 load their asses and their ponies, Gemmel 
 stood whistling moodily, leaning against a 
 tree, his eyes ever and anon directed with 
 an inquisitive scowl towards the tent of 
 Judith's father, his arms folded on his 
 breast, and at intervals stamping his foot 
 upon the ground ; while his favorite 
 hound looked in his face, howled, and 
 shook its tail impatiently, as though it 
 knew that there was work for it at hand. 
 
 Early on the following day, the servant 
 of the heir of Riccon returned, and brought 
 him tidings that the encampment had 
 broken up, and Judith and her father had 
 erected their tent in the neighborhood of 
 Kelso ; for, as the ballad upon the subject 
 hath it — 
 
 ** Often by Tweed they sauntered down 
 As far as pleasant Kelso town." 
 
 Walter mounted his horse, and arrived 
 within sight of their tent before the sun 
 had gone down. At a distance from it he 
 perceived Judith. She was alone, and 
 holding her hand towards the declining 
 sun, ga2dng upon her fingers as if admiring 
 the ring he had presented to her on the 
 previous day. He rode to where she 
 stood. She seemed so entranced that she 
 perceived not his approach. She was in- 
 deed admiring the ring. Yet let not her 
 sex blame her too harshly : men and 
 women have all their foibles — this was 
 one of Judith's ; and she was a beautiful 
 but ignorant girl of eighteen, whose mind 
 had never been nurtured, and whose heart 
 had been left to itself, to be swayed by 
 every passion. He dismounted — he threw 
 himself on his knees before her — he grasped 
 her hand — '' Loveliest of women !" he be- 
 -But I will not follow him through 
 
 iran- 
 
 his rhapsody. Such speeches can be spo- 
 ken but at one period of our lives, and 
 they are interesting only to those to whom 
 they are addressed : therefore, I will spare 
 my readers its recital. But it made an 
 impression on the heart of Judith. He 
 spoke not of hAs feats of strength, of his 
 running, leaping, and WTCstliug, as Gem- 
 mel did ; but he spoke of hcr^ and in strains 
 new but pleasant to her ear. And, al- 
 though she had chided her first lover as a 
 flatterer, she did not so chide the heir of 
 Riccon. Vanity kindled at his words, and 
 even while he knelt and spoke before her, 
 she forgot Gemmel, and already fancied 
 herself the jewelled lady of Riccon Hall. 
 
 He perceived the efiect which his first 
 gift had produced, and he saw also how 
 earnestly she listened to his words. He 
 
JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. 
 
 49 
 
 wore a golden repeater, which he had pur- 
 chased in Geneva, and which was secured 
 jby a chain of the same metal, that went 
 round his neck. He placed the chain 
 around her neck, he pressed the watch 
 upon her bosom. In her bosom she heard, 
 she felt it beat, while her own heart beat 
 more rapidly. 
 
 *' Hark ! — hark !'' said he, " how con- 
 stantly it beats upon your breast — yet, 
 trust me, loved one, my heart beats more 
 truly for you." 
 
 Before they parted, another assignation 
 was arranged. From that period, frequent 
 interviews took place between Walter and 
 the lovely Judith, and at each visit he 
 brought her presents, and adorned her per- 
 son with ornaments. Her parents knew 
 of his addresses, but they forbade them 
 not. 
 
 Now one evening they had taken up their 
 abode in a deserted building near to Twisel 
 bridge ; and thiiher the young laird came 
 to visit Judith. Her father invited him 
 into what had once been an apartment in 
 the ruined building, and requested him to 
 sup with them. Walter consented ; for 
 the love he bore to Judith could render 
 the coarsest morsel sweet. But, when he 
 beheld the meat that was to be prepared and 
 placed before him, his heart sickened and 
 revolted, for it consisted of part of a sheep 
 that had died ; and, when Lussha beheld 
 this, he said — " Wherefore shudder ye, 
 young man, and why is your heart sick .-' 
 Think ye not that the flesh o' the brute 
 which has been slain by the hand o' its Cre- 
 ator, is fitter for man to eat than the flesh 
 o' an animal which man has butchered .^"* 
 
 Walter had not time to reply ; for, as 
 Lussha finished speaking, a dog bounded 
 into the ruins amongst them. Judith 
 started from the ground, she raised her 
 hands, her eyes flashed with horror. 
 
 •' Ah !" she exclauned in a voice of 
 
 * Gipsies always assign this as a reason for 
 their preferring the flesh of animals that have 
 died, to that of such as are slaughtered, 
 VOL. ir. 4: 
 
 suppressed agony, " it is Gemmel's — Gem- 
 mel's houndT Fly, Walter, fly !" 
 
 " Wherefore should I fly .?" returned 
 the youth ; " think ye, Judith, I am not 
 able to defend myself and you against any 
 man ? — Let this fierce brajjgart come." 
 
 " Away ! — haste ye away, sir !" said 
 Lussha earnestly, grasping him by the 
 arm, " or there will be blood and dead 
 bodies on this floor ! Come away ! Gem- 
 mel Grgeme is at hand, and ye dinna ken 
 him sae weel as I do !" 
 
 Walter would have remonstrated, but 
 the gipsy, still grasping him by the arm, 
 dragged him to a door of the ruin, adding 
 — " Steal away — quick ! quick among the 
 trees, and keep down by the Till to Tweed- 
 side. Dinna speak I — away !" 
 
 It was a grey midnight in July, and the 
 heir of Riccon had not been absent three 
 minutes, when Gemmel Graeme stalked 
 into the ruin, and with his arms folded sat 
 down upon a stone in sullen silence. 
 
 " We are glad to see ye, Gemmel," 
 said Mariam ; " ye hae been an unco 
 stranorer." 
 
 " Humph!" was his brief and cold 
 reply. 
 
 The supper was spread upon the ground 
 and the mother of Judith again added — 
 " Come, Gemmel, lad, it is o' nae use to 
 be in a cankered humor for ever. Draw 
 forward and help yerseP — ye see there is 
 nae want." 
 
 " So I see !" replied he, sarcastically ; 
 " did ye expect company ? I doubt yer 
 fare would hardly be to his palate !" 
 
 " What do you mean, Gemmel .?" cried 
 Lussha ; " think ye that we are put up 
 wi' yer fits ? — or wherefore, if ye hae nae- 
 thing to say, come ye glunching here, wi' 
 a brow as dark and threatening as a nicht 
 in December .^" 
 
 Gemmel rose angrily and replied — '' I 
 hae something to say, Lussha, and that 
 something is to Judith, but not in your 
 presence. Judith, will ye speak wi' me .^" 
 added he, addressing: her. 
 
 Judith, who had sat in a corner of the 
 
50 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ruin, with her hands upon her bosom, 
 covering the watch which young Walter 
 had given her, and forgetting that the 
 golden chain by which it was suspended 
 from her neck was visible, cast a timid 
 glance towards her father, as if unploring 
 his protection. 
 
 " I am no sure, Gemmel," said Lussha, 
 *' whether I can trust my daughter in yer 
 company or no. If I do, will ye gie me 
 yer thumb that ye winna harm her, nor 
 raise your hand against her." 
 
 " Harm her !" — exclaimed Gemmel, 
 disdainfully — "I scorn it! — there's my 
 thumb." 
 
 " Ye may gang, Judith," said her 
 father. 
 
 Judith, with fear and guilt graven on 
 her lovely features, rose and accompanied 
 Gemmel. He walked in silence by her 
 side until they came to an old and broad- 
 branched tree, which stood about forty 
 yards from the ruin. A waning summer 
 moon had risen since he arrived, and min- 
 gled its light with the grey gloam of the 
 night, revealing the ornaments which Ju- 
 dith wore. 
 
 " Judith," said Gemmel, breaking the 
 silence, and raising her hand from her 
 bosom, with which she concealed the 
 watch, " where got ye thae braw orna- 
 ments ! Has yer faither found a heart to 
 lay his fingers on the treasures in the sil- 
 ver jug .^" 
 
 She trembled and remained silent. 
 
 " Poor thing ! poor thing ! — lost Ju- 
 dith !" exclaimed Gemmel, " I see how it 
 is. For the sake o' thae vile gewgaws ye 
 hae deserted me — ye hae sacrificed peace 
 o' mind, and bidden fareweel to happi- 
 ness ! O Judith, woman ! — wha is the 
 flatterer noo .'' Do you mind sj^ne we sat 
 by the hedge-side thegithcr, when the 
 corn-craik counted the moments round 
 about us, and tried to mind us lioo they 
 flew — when the sun had sunk down in the 
 west, and the bonny hawthorn showered 
 its fragrance owre us, as though we sat in 
 the garden where our first parents were 
 
 I ^^PPy '• 1^0 you mind o' thae days, Ju- 
 dith ? — and hoo, when my heaving bosom 
 : beat upon yours, as we sat locked in ilka 
 other's arms, I asked, ' Will ye be mine .'' 
 and ye let yer head fa' on my shouther, 
 and said, ' I will P — Judith ! do ye mind 
 o' thae things, and where are they noo .^" 
 
 " Gemmel Graeme,'' replied she, and 
 she wept as she spoke, " let me gang — I 
 canna bide wi' ye — and ye hae nae richt 
 to put yer questions to me." 
 
 " Nae ria;ht !" he returned — " O Ju- 
 dith ! hae ye forgotten a' yer vows ? — or 
 hae ye forgotten the time when, in caulder 
 nichts than this, when the snaw was on 
 the ground, and the trees were bare o' 
 leaves, that ye hae stood or wandered wi' 
 me, frae the time that the sun gaed down, 
 until the sea-birds and the craws sailed 
 owre oor heads seeking for theii* food on 
 the next morning .' — and now ye tell me 
 ye canna bide wi' me ? Judith ! ye 
 hae dune what has made my heart mise- 
 rable, and what will make yer ain as mis- 
 erable !" And as he spoke he still held 
 her hand. 
 
 " Let me gang, Gemmel," she again 
 sobbed, and strugcrled to wrest her hand 
 from his grasp — " I hae naething to say 
 to ye." 
 
 *•' Then ye will leave me, Judith I" he 
 cried, wildly — " leave me for ever, wi' a 
 withered heart and a maddened brain !" 
 She answered him not, but still wept and 
 struggled the more to escape from him. 
 
 " Then, gang, Judith I" he cried, and 
 flung her hand from him, but beware hoo 
 
 we meet acam 
 
 t'5 
 
 Some months after this, and when the 
 harvest-moon shone full on the fields of 
 golden gi-ain, and the leaves rustled dry 
 and embrowned upon the trees, there was 
 a sound of voices in a wood which over- 
 hung the Tweed near Coldstream. They 
 were the voices of Walter the heir of Ric- 
 con and of Judith. 
 
 " Leave," said he, " dear Judith, leave 
 
 this wandering life, and come wi' me, and 
 
 1 ye shall be clad in silks, dearest, hae ser- 
 
JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. 
 
 51 
 
 vants to wait on ye, and a carriage to ride 
 
 m 
 
 ?" 
 
 " All !" she sighed, ** but a wandering 
 life is a pleasant life ; and, if I were to 
 gang wi' ye, would ye aye be kind to me, 
 and love me as ye do now ?" 
 
 " Can ye be sae cruel as doubt me, Ju- 
 dith ?'' was his reply. 
 
 " Weel," returned she, " it was for yer 
 sake that I left Gemmel Graeme, wha is 
 a bald and a leal lad, and one that I once 
 thought I liked weel. Now, I dinna un- 
 derstand about your priests and your 
 books, but will ye come before my faither 
 and my mother, and the rest o' oor folk, 
 and before them swear that I am yer law- 
 fu' wife, the only lady o' Riccon Ha', and 
 I will gang wi' ye ?'' 
 
 " My own Judith, I will !" replied 
 Walter, earnestly. 
 
 " You will not !" exclaimed a loud and 
 wild voice, " unless over the dead body of 
 Gemmel Grseme .'"' 
 
 At the same moment a pistol flashed 
 within a few yards of where they stood, 
 and Walter the heir of Riceon fell with 
 a groan at the feet of Judith. Her 
 screams ransr throuo-h the woods, startlino; 
 the slumberino; birds from the branches, 
 and causing them to fly to and fro in con- 
 fusion. Gemmel sprang forward, and 
 grasped her hand — '^ Now, fause ane," 
 he cried, "kiss the lips o' yer bonny 
 bridegroom ! — catch his spirit as it leaves 
 him ! Hang roond his neck and baud 
 him to yer heart till his corpse be cauld ! 
 Noo, he canna hae ye, and I winna ! — 
 farewsel ! — fareweel ! — fause, treacherous 
 Judith !" 
 
 Thus sayifig, and striking his forehead, 
 and uttering a loud and bitter scream, he 
 rushed away. 
 
 Judith sank down by the dead body of 
 Walter, and her tears fell upon his face. 
 Her cries reached the encampment where 
 her parents and others of her race were. 
 They hastened to the wood from whence 
 her cries proceeded, and found her stretch- 
 ed upon the ground, her arms encircling 
 
 the neck of the dead. They raised her 
 in their arms and tried to soothe her, but 
 she screamed the more wildly, and seemed 
 as one whose senses grief has bewildered. 
 '^' Judith," said her father, " speak to 
 me, bairn — wha has done this ? Was 
 it" 
 
 " Gemmel ! — wicked Gemmel !'' she 
 cried ; and in the same breath added, 
 " No ! no ! — it wasna him ! It was me ! 
 — it was me ! It was fause Judith." 
 
 Gemmel Graeme, however, had dropped 
 his pistol on the ground when he beheld 
 his victim fall, and one of the party taking 
 it up, they knew him to be the murderer. 
 Lussha Fleckie, touched by his daugh- 
 ter's grief, and disappointed by his dream 
 of vain ambition being broken, caused 
 each of his party to take a vow that they 
 would search for Gemmel Graeme, and 
 whosoever found him should take blood 
 for blood upon his head. 
 
 And they did search, but vainly, for 
 Gemmel was no more heard of. 
 
 Twelve months passed, and autumn had 
 come again. A young maniac mother, 
 with a child at her breast, and dressed as 
 a gipsy, endeavored to cross the Tweed 
 between Norham and Ladykirk. The 
 waters rose suddenly, and as they rose 
 she held her infant closer to her bosom, 
 and sang to it ; but the angry flood bore 
 away the maniac mother and her babe. 
 She was rescued and restored to life, 
 though not to reason, but the child was 
 seen no more. 
 
 For thirty years the poor maniac con- 
 tinued at intervals to visit the fatal spot, 
 wandering by the river, stretching out 
 her arms, calling on her child, saying — 
 " Come to me — come to yer mother, my 
 bonny bairn, for ye are heir o' Riccon, 
 and why should I gang shoeless amang 
 snaw ! Come to me — it was cruel Gem- 
 mel Grseme that murdered your bonny 
 faither — it wasna me !" 
 
 It was in January the body of a grey- 
 haired woman, covered with a tattered red 
 
 cloak, was found frozen and dead, below 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 lUINOIS LIBRARY = 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Norham Castle. It was the poor maniac 
 Judithj the once beautiful gipsy. Some 
 years afterwards, an old soldier who had 
 been in foreign wars, came to reside in 
 
 the neighborhood, and on his deathbed 
 requested that he should be buried by the 
 side of Judith, and the letters G. G. 
 carved on a stone over his grave. 
 
 THE WOOERS 
 
 In the neighborhood of a certain little 
 town in the west, and not twenty miles 
 distant from Glasgow, there lived a cer- 
 tain young lady, whom we shall call Miss 
 Barrowman. She was the only daughter 
 of a person of considerable landed pro- 
 perty — a sort of half squire, half farmer — 
 and was thus — as heiress apparent of Ne- 
 therlea, and proprietrix, in her own right, 
 of a goodly person, and blooming counte- 
 nance — early supplied with a full comple- 
 ment of suitors of various descriptions. 
 She had them in dozens ; and amongst 
 these were several young men, to whom, 
 on the score of eligibility, she could not 
 possibly urge any reasonable objection. 
 Yet, strange to say, she did object to 
 them, one and all, and that without as- 
 signing any reason for her doing so. It 
 was very odd, and everybody thought so. 
 The general impression, however, on the 
 subject was, that Miss Barrowman had 
 determined to live a life of single blessed- 
 ness, and to retain both her cash and com- 
 fort in her own hands. There were some, 
 however, who attributed her coyness to a 
 secret attachment, although no one could 
 say or conjecture who the favored object 
 was. 
 
 Such were the opinions entertained of 
 Miss Barrowman's motives for her con- 
 duct towards her various lovers ; but they 
 were neither of them correct. She had 
 not determined to lead a life of celibacy ; 
 neither had she yet formed any secret at- 
 tachment. She acted, in this matter. 
 
 under the influence of a very singular 
 fancy — a fancy for which we will not pre- 
 tend to account, and for which, we rather 
 think, the fair whimsicalist herself would 
 have had some difficiilty iii accounting. 
 Miss Barrowman had determined to mar- 
 ry no other than a ploughman. So far as 
 the profession went of him who was to be 
 the man of her choice, on this she had re- 
 solved. A ploughman her husband must 
 be, and nothing else. It is probable that, 
 in seeking a mate in this class, she had 
 formed some peculiar notions of her own, 
 on the subject of simplicity of heart and 
 purity of morals. She had conceived, it 
 is not unlikely, that amongst this class she 
 would find, more readily and more cer- 
 tainly than in any other, a man of the 
 most perfect integrity of mind, and of the 
 most unsophisticated feeling. 
 
 These, we say, it is more than probable 
 were the considerations which influenced 
 Miss Barrowman, in the very extraordi- 
 nary resolution to which she had come on 
 the important subject of a husband. But 
 whether they were or not, such was the 
 resolution she had formed, and by this 
 resolution she determined to abide. 
 
 Miss Barrowman, however, had long 
 been of this mind as to the profession of 
 her future lord, before any one knew of it. 
 She had for many years kept the secret 
 locked up in her own bosom ; but it at 
 length got wind, in consequence of some 
 expressions which she had inadvertently 
 allowed to escape her. This, however. 
 
THE WOOERS. 
 
 53 
 
 Was not till after her father's death ; till 
 she had become mistress, uncontrolled 
 mistress, of all his broad acres and well- 
 hoarded gear. 
 
 The discovery of this strange peculiari- 
 ty in the matrimonial calculations of Miss 
 Barrowman, excited, as might be expect- 
 ed, a prodigious sensation throughout the 
 country, and, in particular, created a tre- 
 mendous commotion amongst her gentle- 
 men lovers. They could not understand 
 it ; nor, indeed, could anybody else. The 
 former at first treated the matter as a 
 joke, and would not believe it ; but, on 
 reflecting a little on the great length of 
 time during which Miss Barrowman had 
 withstood all their efforts to gain her af- 
 fections, and the steadiness with which 
 she continued to withstand them, they 
 began to think there must be something 
 in it, and, at length, gradually withdrew 
 from the siege altogether, one after the 
 other. 
 
 But at this point in the progress of the 
 general effect of Miss Barrowman's pecu- 
 liar notions on the subject of matrimonial 
 alliances, a very curious result ensued. 
 The class of suitors who had just been 
 driven off, had no sooner retired from the 
 field, than another advanced ; a distinct 
 and separate body. And who were they, 
 thinkest thou, gentle reader ? Why, they 
 were precisely of that description, as to 
 profession, from whose unsophisticated 
 ranks the lady of Netherlea had deter- 
 mined on choosing a husband. They 
 were ploughmen. Every one of them 
 ploughmen, to a man. The effect of the 
 rumor of Miss Barrowman^s peculiar pre- 
 dilection having been to inspire hopes of 
 the tenderest kind in the bosom of every 
 unmarried tiller of the soil within twenty 
 miles of her residence ; and the effect 
 a2:ain of this effect was, to brins; them in 
 dozens, on various pretences, about Ne- 
 therlea, and all pinked out in the primi- 
 tive buckism of flaming red waistcoats, 
 red garters tied in a flashy knot at the 
 knee, and corduroy jackets. 
 
 They formed, perhaps, as original a set 
 of wooers as ever young lady had the hap- 
 piness of being surrounded with. 
 
 This very open and palpable way of 
 meeting her wishes, however, was not 
 exactly to Miss Barrowman's taste. She 
 did not want such a display of rustic gal- 
 lantry to be directed towards her, nor 
 such an avowed competition amongst the 
 clod-hoppers of the country for the honor 
 of her hand. It rather shocked her a lit- 
 tle, and all but drove her from her orio-i- 
 nal resolution — an effect which was fur- 
 ther promoted by an occurrence which we 
 now proceed to relate. 
 
 About a mile distant from Netherlea, 
 there stood, in the " llrk " o' a hill, a 
 certain little cottage, occupied by a Mrs. 
 Oswald and her son. Mrs. Oswald was a 
 widow ; and her son, Sandy, a merry 
 ploughman, in the service of a Mr. "Wil- 
 liamson, a farmer, and tenant of Miss 
 Barrowman's. Sandy was a good-natured 
 fellow, well meaning and honest, but by 
 no means a bright youth. He was, in 
 fact, rather a soft lumpish sort of a chap, 
 but a laborious and faithful servant ; and, 
 on this account, well liked by his master 
 — a-g, indeed, he was by everybody else — 
 for his inoffensive manners and extreme 
 good-nature. 
 
 Now, it had, of course, reached Sandy's 
 ears, and those of his mother too, that the 
 young lady of Netherlea had determined 
 to choose of his particular craft for a hus- 
 band, but it had never struck him that 
 there was any chance of his being the 
 lucky man on whom her choice would fall, 
 and he had therefore never made the 
 slightest attempt to attract the notice of 
 the fair lady of Netherlea, This supine- 
 ness to his own interest, Sandy's mother 
 marked, for some time, with great impa- 
 tience, but she said nothing on the sub- 
 ject ; at least nothing directly ; for she 
 did drop a broad hint now and then, 
 although without venturing on an explicit 
 expression of her wishes. At length, 
 however, when she saw that neither her 
 
54 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 hints nor any innate ideas of his own 
 would prompt him to any active measures 
 in the matter, she could contain herself 
 no longer. 
 
 " Dear me, Sandy, man," she broke 
 out one night, as her hopeful son sat by 
 the fire, employed in demolishing the con- 
 tents of an enormous bicker of porridge 
 which he held between his knees, a tre- 
 mendous horn spoon in his right hand, 
 and a capacious bowl of milk in his left — 
 " Dear me, Sandy, man," she said, as she 
 wiped up some whole and some broken 
 dishes, which she was ranging aver the 
 dresser in such a way as to produce the 
 most hnposing effect, '^ I wonder to see ye 
 hae sae little spunk. Ye're no your fai- 
 ther's son ava, man." 
 
 " What's the case noo, mither .?" said 
 Sandy, driving away at his bicker with 
 unabating energy. 
 
 "The case — my word, need ye ask 
 that .?" replied his mother, impatiently. 
 " Isna there the leddy o' Netherlea, wi' 
 lapfous o' gowd and lumps o' laun, wad 
 mak a man o' ye for ever, just for the 
 liftin, and yet ye'U no put doon your haun 
 to pick her up .^" 
 
 To this philippic Sandy made no reply, 
 but continued delving away at his por- 
 ridf^e. He was evidently thinking, how- 
 ever — this being a process which he could 
 carry on without interrupting the neces- 
 sary and pleasant labors in which he was 
 employed ? 
 
 " What for, man," resumed his mother, 
 " dinna ye rig yersel oot in your Sunday 
 claes o' an afternoon, and take a daunder 
 doon by the hoose, and let the leddy see 
 you, the same as Tarn Norrie's doin, and 
 Hugh Blair, and Watty Craig, and a 
 wheen may o' them ? What for dinna ye 
 do that, Sandy } Ye're a weel-faured 
 strappin chiel, although I say't that suldna 
 say't, maybe, and might hae as guid a 
 chance as ony o' them." 
 
 Still Sandy said nothing ; for his bicker 
 was not yet finished, and Sandy made it a 
 
 great end was accomplished. It was now 
 nearly bo, however, for the sound of the 
 spoon coming in contact with the wood, 
 might at this moment be distinctly heard. 
 Sandy was now scrapiQg his bicker. It 
 was cleared out. Not as much as a spar- 
 row would peck at was left. The remains 
 of the milk was swigged off, the bowl 
 which had contained it was placed within 
 the porridge dish, the spoon within that, 
 and the whole handed over to his mother. 
 This done, Sandy threw himself back in 
 his chair with an air of comfortable satie- 
 ty, and looking at the fire thus bespoke 
 his affectionate parent : — 
 
 " What was that ye war sayin, mither, 
 about the young leddy o' Netherlea .^" 
 
 " I was sayin, Sandy," replied his 
 mother, " that if ye waur worth your lugs 
 ye wad mak up to her as ithers are doin, 
 and try to get her into your ain creel." 
 
 Sandy looked at the fire with a grave 
 face, into which face, moreover, he threw 
 as marked an expression of thought as he 
 could conveniently command, but which 
 look marvellously like stupidity, and said 
 sunply and briefly : — 
 
 " I doot it wad be o' nae use, mither," 
 " Faint heart never wan fair leddy, 
 Sandy," replied the latter. " Try your 
 luck, man. I'm sure ye're as likely a 
 chiel as ony that's after her, and a hantle 
 mair likely than a wheen o^ them. Up 
 and be doin, man. Od, your faither, 
 honest man, had me whiskt awa afore the 
 minister before I had time to think what 
 I was aboot. My word, he was a man a' 
 mettle in thae days. Wi' him it was but 
 twa words, a clap on the shouther and 
 awa wi't. Od, there wasna a lass in the 
 country, gentle or simple, that wad hae 
 stood an hour afore him. He had a 
 tongue wad hae wiled the very lavrocks 
 frae the lift. Up man, Sandy, and be 
 doin. Put on your Sunday claes this 
 very afternoon, put a wee hair o' your 
 faither's spunk in your waistcoat pocket, 
 and away doon to Netherlea, an see what 
 
 rule never to say or do anything till that | ye can do." 
 
THE WOOERS. 
 
 Sandy continued musing intently, but 
 saying little. Hitlierto he had never 
 dreamt of adventurino- on the bold and 
 decisive proceeding thus recommended to 
 him ; but urged as he was now by his 
 mother, and struck as he was now, also, 
 by certain stirrings of ambition suddenly 
 generated within him, he began to think 
 of the matter more seriously, and to see 
 it, that is, his own proposed share in it, 
 in a more feasible light than he had for- 
 merly viewed it. 
 
 " We may try't, mither," he said, after 
 a pause of some duration, which he em- 
 ployed in thinking, and dangling the while 
 his mother's little bent poker between his 
 fino-er and thumb : makino- it rino-, anon, 
 against the fender. " We may try't, 
 mither," he said. " Nae harm in that, 
 ony way." 
 
 '' Nane, Sandy, my man, nane what- 
 ever," replied his mother, delighted with 
 
 stockingh:, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, &c., 
 &c., all of which she deposited on a chair 
 for their owner's appropriation ; the for- 
 mer to execute a series of ablutionary cere- 
 monies, previous to his donning the Sun- 
 day gear which his mother was laying out 
 for him. The first step of Sandy's pro- 
 ceedings in this department of the in- 
 tended fit-out, was to provide himself with 
 a huge brown-ware basin, which he three- 
 parts filled with water, a lump of black, 
 dirty-looking soap, and a towel. These 
 collected, and the first of them placed on 
 n stool, Sandy threw his shirt over his 
 head, and began to plunge and splutter 
 away with great energy and activity. 
 When he had done, and rubbed himself 
 dry, his broad red face actually glowed 
 with heat, and shone, at the same time, 
 as if it had been newly varnished. 
 
 " Ye're lookin just uncommon wee! the 
 nicht, Sandy," said his delighted mother, 
 
 her success in arousing what she called I looking, with maternal pride and gratula- 
 
 the spirit of her hopeful youth of a son. 
 
 a wr^'ll gie iier a trial, ony way," re- 
 sumed Sandy, who had now risen to his 
 legs, and was in the act of throwing ofi" 
 his working jacket. 
 
 " That's richt, Sandy. That's what I 
 ca' spunk. Will I bring oot your San- 
 day claes !" 
 
 '' Ye m^ay dae sae," said her son. 
 '' Whether do ye think I should put on 
 the velveteen jacket or the corduroy ane, 
 mither ?" 
 
 " To my taste, noo, Sandy ; but please 
 yoursel, my man," replied the latter ; " ye 
 look best in the velveteen ane ; mair gen- 
 teeler, and I think it's the maist likely 
 ane to tak her ee." 
 
 " Put it oot then, mither," said San- 
 dy ; and a joint process, having for its 
 end the fitting out of Sandy's person in 
 the most captivating way possible, was 
 begun at one and the same moment by 
 Sandy and his mother. The latter pro- 
 ceeding to a large wooden chest, and 
 commencing to disentomb therefrom sun- 
 dry aj'ticles of wearing apparel, such as 
 
 tion on the huge, flaming, and shining 
 orb, which her son called his countenance. 
 Sandy smiled at the compliment ; and, 
 when he did so, displayed a row of teeth 
 which were eminently calculated to set 
 oif his other charms, being finely diversi- 
 fied in size, color, and position. In a few 
 minutes after, Sandy's toilet was all but 
 completed. He had only now to put the 
 last finishing touch to his person. For 
 this purpose he sat down at a small table, 
 placed before him a small oblong piece of 
 wood, about an inch thick, in the centre 
 of which was set and secured by a chaste 
 edging of putty of about half an inch in 
 breadth, and richly ornamented by an ir- 
 regular series of thumb-marks, a piece of 
 looking-glass of a sort of rhomboidal 
 shape, of about two and a half to three 
 inches surface. 
 
 By the aid of this ingenious piece of 
 mechanism, in which his own captivating 
 image was reflected, Sandy commenced 
 tearing down his carroty locks with a 
 short, dumpy, toothless comb, and trim- 
 ming, with the same convenient instru- 
 
i»6 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ment, a pair of fiery- colored, bushy whis- 
 kers, of which he was justly not a little 
 vain. These little matters done, Sandy's 
 usual routine of proceedings in the affair 
 of outward decoration was exhausted. 
 He could do no more. All that art 
 could do was done. 
 
 Having completed his toilet, Sandy 
 rose to his feet, clapped his best hat on 
 his head — and an excellent one it was, 
 the nap being fully an inch and a half 
 ong — put his watch, of about the dimen- 
 sions of an ordinary saucer, in his fob, 
 pulled out to its fullest length the broad 
 blue ribbon to which it was attached, and 
 to whose outer extremity was appended a 
 very handsome brass seal with a glass 
 face, a brass key, and a small foreign 
 hucky (shell) ; the whole being in excel- 
 lent taste, took a switch in his hand, and 
 thus prepared at all points, sallied forth 
 to win the affections of the lady of Neth- 
 erlea. 
 
 His mother followed him to the door, 
 and looked with pride at the receding 
 figure of her " weel-faured, buirdly son," 
 At this point of our story, we must let 
 the reader into a certain small secret re- 
 garding Sandy Oswald, and in connexion 
 with his present adventure, which we did 
 not hint at before. We told the truth as 
 to his feelings on the subject of coming 
 forward with his suit to the lady of Neth- 
 erlea, but we did not tell the whole truth. 
 There was something in reserve which we 
 did not disclose, and this was, that there 
 was at this moment in the service of that 
 lady, a certain young woman to whom 
 Sandy had made earnest love for an entire 
 twelvemonth before, and to whom he had, 
 a hundred times, sworn everlasting fealty, 
 ^jow, this was an awkward affair. Being 
 the accepted lover of the maid, how could 
 he come forward as a suitor of the mis- 
 tress } If he attempted the latter, the 
 former was on the spot to detect and ex- 
 pose his faithlessness. It was a puzzling 
 predicament. He could not move a peg 
 
 to such exposure as we have hinted at", 
 and this, gentle reader, was the principal 
 reason why he had hitherto refrained from 
 the enterprise on which, in the desperate 
 hope of being able to escape the notice of 
 his deceived fair one, he was now going. 
 It was on the strength of this forlorn hope 
 then, and which he trusted farther to pro- 
 mote by some dexterous manoeuvring, that 
 Sandy was now adventuring on the daring 
 measure recommended by his mother. 
 
 On this adventure he did not proceed, 
 however, without some misgivings. He 
 did not see how he could possibly secure 
 the notice of the mistress without attract- 
 ing that of the maid also, and being thus 
 awkwardly interrupted in his designs ; for 
 he did not doubt that if Mysie saw him, 
 she would at once presume that it was her 
 he "was seeking, and would hasten to seize 
 an opportunity of joining him. He, how- 
 ever, resolved to try, although the occur- 
 rence just alluded to was one certainly to 
 be avoided by all means, if possible, and 
 the faithless swain determined to avoid it 
 if he could. With this view he approach- 
 ed the house by the most concealed 
 routes, creeping along hedges, darting 
 across parks, and skulking down dyke- 
 sides, till he came within a stone throw of 
 Netherlea House. Having arrived at this 
 distance, and being, as he thought, in a 
 pretty secure position, Sandy determined 
 to hold it for a short time, until he had 
 resolved on his next proceeding ; and, in 
 the meantime, to keep a sharp look-out 
 for the lady of Netherlea, whom he 
 thought he might possibly see walking 
 about, or discover in some other equally 
 
 accessible position. Alas, little did San- 
 dy dream that his vile tergiversations had 
 all been marked, and his still viler faith- 
 lessness more than guessed at, and that 
 too by the very two most concerned in 
 his treacherous proceedings — the maid 
 and mistress of Netherlea. This was the 
 fact. The two happened to be out walk- 
 ing ; and were seated, during the very 
 
 in the matter without subjecting himself | time that Sandy was performing his zig- 
 
THE WOOERS. 
 
 57 
 
 zas: advances towards the house, on a 
 small eminence in the neighborhood, 
 which commanded a full view of all that 
 was passing below. They thus witnessed, 
 without being observed by him, the whole 
 of his strano;e manoeuvring;. For a time 
 they were both much at a loss to conceive 
 what he meant — what object he was driv- 
 ing at. But women's wit is sharp in 
 these matters ; and a hasty comparing of 
 notes, and observations, and circum- 
 stances, and conjectures, between the 
 maid and the mistress, soon brought them 
 to the facts of the case. 
 
 At first Mysie thought he was coming 
 on a visit to her ; and she blushed, as her 
 mistress, who knew of the footing on 
 which she and Sandy stood, expressed 
 precisely the same opinion. But both 
 the time of day and the manner of his 
 approach were unusual. He was not wont 
 to come till the twilight, nor, when he 
 came to visit her, did he come by stealth, 
 as he was now doing ; he came openly. 
 More extraordinary still, he was on this 
 occasion in full dress, garters and all. 
 Now, he never came to see Mysie, ex- 
 cepting on Sunday, in this high state of 
 feather. What then could this and all 
 the rest of it mean. Mysie soon solved 
 the difficulty. 
 
 " Oh, the loon !" she suddenly burst 
 out with — " I'll wad my best new gown, 
 he's come to see if he can get a sicht and 
 a word o' you, mistress, and no o' me. 
 That's the way he's dinked himsel oot in 
 his Sunday claes ; and that's the reason, 
 too, that he has been joukin and howkin 
 his way doon like a mowdiwart, just to 
 keep oot o' my sicht." 
 
 Mysie's mistress had arrived at precise- 
 ly the same conclusion on the subject, 
 although she had not expressed it. Now, 
 however, that her maid had, she acknow- 
 ledged its probability with a blush and a 
 laudi at the same time. 
 
 " It's very possible that what you con- 
 jecture is true, Mysie," said Miss Bar- 
 rowman. " Nay, I have no doubt of it ; 
 
 and, since it is so, if you like we'll play 
 3^our faithless swain a trick." 
 
 " Wi' a' my heart — wi' a' my heart, 
 mem," replied Mysie, eagerly. " I wad 
 like to be revenged on the fause hearted 
 loon." 
 
 " Well, then, Mysie," said Miss Bar- 
 rowman ; and she finished the sentence 
 by giving her maid certain instructions, 
 the result of which the reader will find in 
 the sequel. 
 
 Obedient to these instructions, and re- 
 joicing in the prospect of revenge which 
 they promised to lead to, Mysie ran off 
 to execute them, while Miss Barrowman 
 took the direction of Sandy's conceal- 
 ment, which she approached slowly, in 
 order to give the lurker an opportunity 
 of speaking to her, if he so designed. 
 Rejoiced beyond measure, and not a little 
 astonished too, at his good luck, Sandy 
 saw Miss Barrowman advancing towards 
 him, and, the moment he saw her, he 
 popped out of his retreat and made in the 
 direction she was coming with an air as if 
 their meeting, on his part, were acciden- 
 ta,l. When within a few yards of the lady 
 of Netherlea, Sandy began to smile as 
 hard and as captivatingly as he could, 
 and, when a little nearer, took off his hat, 
 placed himself directly in her way, and 
 said — 
 
 " Guid e'en to you, my leddy. There's 
 a fine afternuin. Hae ye been takin a 
 walk .?" 
 
 " Indeed have I, Sandy," replied Miss 
 Barrowman, graciously, and affecting a 
 little coquettish embarrassment. Sandy 
 marked with great gratification, this symp- 
 tom of the desirable effect he had pro- 
 duced, and, gathering courage from it, 
 proceeded — 
 
 " Do you no find it eerie, mem, walkin 
 your lane ?" said Sandy, with a look 
 meant to be at once sly and languishing. 
 
 " O no, Sandy," replied Miss Barrow- 
 man ; "I like a solitary walk, now and 
 then, very much, although, if one could 
 always get the one they liked with tbem^ 
 
58 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 it would certainly be much more agree- 
 able." 
 
 And the young lady sighed. 
 
 " It wad surely be that, mem," said 
 Sandy, now nickering like a pony. '* Wad 
 ye no tak a wee bit turn, mem, back wi' 
 me the length o' the hazel wood ? I'm 
 sure I wad be unco prood o' the honor," 
 added Sandy, who was every moment be- 
 coming more eager and confident in his 
 manner. 
 
 " No, no, Sandy — not just now," re- 
 plied Miss Barrowman, confusedly, and 
 in a hurried whisper ; " but if you'll come 
 to the garden gate in an hour hence, I'll 
 be there to let you in, and we can take a 
 turn in the garden." 
 
 " Thank ye, mem — thank ye," said 
 Sandy. " I'll be punktwal." 
 
 " Do, Sandy," replied Miss Barrow- 
 man ; " but, in the meantime, get out of 
 the way as fast as you can, for I expect 
 Mysie every instant to make her appear- 
 ance." 
 
 It required no more to make Sandy 
 vanish. In a twinkling he was out of 
 sight, although not out of hearing ; for he 
 might have been heard, and traced too, 
 for several seconds, crashing his way 
 through the hedges and birches that at 
 once obstructed his retreat and formed 
 his concealment. 
 
 Having made this arrangement with 
 Sandy, Miss Barrowman hastened home ; 
 and, with great glee, informed Mysie of 
 what had transpired, and of the appoint- 
 ment which she had made with her lover. 
 
 " Now, Mysie," said Miss Barrowman, 
 " is all ready .?" 
 
 Mysie exultingly replied that it was. 
 
 " Now, then," continued Miss Barrow- 
 man, " what I want you to do is this : — It 
 will be quite dark when Sandy comes to 
 the garden gate ; so, as we are much 
 about a size and a figure, you will wrap 
 yourself in one of my cloaks, put on one 
 of my bonnets, and receive him ; and, if 
 you keep your head well muffled up, 
 speak very low, and as little as possible. 
 
 he will never doubt but that you are me. 
 Well, then, hear all that he has to say. 
 Let him come out with the full measure 
 of his faithlessness. Treasure up his 
 words, so as to be able to serve them up 
 to him again on another occasion, and then 
 conduct him stealthily, as it were, into 
 the house, under pretence that you feel 
 chill in the air, and are so fond that you 
 wish a little more of his company. When 
 you have got him into the house, we will 
 together manage the rest." 
 
 " O mistress ! O mistress I" exclaimed 
 Mysie, clapping her hands in uncontrolla- 
 ble ecstasy, " that's juist delightfu. It's 
 graund, graund. Oh, we'll gie him a 
 coolin." 
 
 Faithful to his appointment, and already 
 believing himself Laird of Netherlea, San- 
 dy was at his post at the precise time 
 fixed on. Indeed, he had been there fully 
 half-an-hour before. When that hour 
 came, Sandy beat a gentle rat-tat-tat, 
 with the points of his fingers, on the gar- 
 den door. The signal was instantly at- 
 tended to ; the door was cautiously open- 
 ed ; and, in a second after, the happy 
 Sandy Oswald found himself in Netherlea 
 garden, with its young mistress, as he had 
 no doubt, by his side. 
 
 " Nae fear o' Mysie comin this way, 
 my leddy .'" said Sandy, in a low whis- 
 per, and it was one of the first things he 
 said. " She kens naething aboot our 
 meeting, I houp." 
 
 " No," muttered Mysie, in an all but 
 inaudible tone. 
 
 " That's richt," replied Sandy ; " for 
 she's a glaiket, silly taupy, and, I verily 
 believe, thinks I hae some notion o' her. 
 Gude save the mark ! he wad be unco ill 
 afi" for a wife wad take Mysie Blackater." 
 
 '' I thought ye liked her," in a voice 
 that barely passed the threshold of the 
 speaker's muffle. 
 
 " Liked her !" replied Sandy, con- 
 temptuously. " Just a piece o' nonsense. 
 I dinna gie a strae for her — an ugly pukit 
 like thing." 
 
THE WOOERS. 
 
 " I thought ye used to reckon her pret- 
 ty, and call her so ?" 
 
 " Tuts ! juist da£&n — ^juist to please the 
 puir silly thing.'' 
 
 ^' I thought ye pledged yer word to 
 marry her ?" 
 
 " A' a piece o' nonsense. Said some- 
 thing like that for fun, maybe, but never 
 intended it. Na, na," continued Sandy, 
 now becoming more ardent in his manner, 
 and seizing his fair companion by the hand 
 — " I ken whar I wad look for a wife if I 
 thocht there was ony chance o' gettin 
 her ;" and Sandy looked " unutterable 
 things," which, however, could not be 
 seen in the dark. 
 
 Mysie now thought it full time to con- 
 duct her faithless swain into the house ; 
 and she now proposed it. 
 
 " But are ye sure we can keep clear o' 
 Mysie ?" inquired Sandy, anxiously, and 
 evidently in great terror of such a rencon- 
 tre taking place. He was assured he had 
 nothing to fear on this score ; and, on the 
 faith of this assurance, Sandy at once fol- 
 lowed his conductor, not a little elated 
 with the very marked preference which 
 such a proceeding as being invited into 
 the house indicated. 
 
 Executing her part of the plot admira- 
 bly, although frequently in danger of mar- 
 ring it by an untimeous burst of laughter, 
 Mysie now led her victim to the altar— 
 that is, to a certain closet, which was to 
 be the scene of future operations. The 
 door was open. 
 
 " Hist !" said Mysie, in a tone of alarm, 
 and stooping suddenly precisely opposite 
 said closet — " 1 hear a foot. It's Mysie." 
 
 " God's sake, woman, whar'll I gang ?'' 
 said Sandy, in great terror. *' Let me 
 get into some hole or ither." 
 
 " Here — in here, man. Quick, quick 
 wi' ye," whispered Mysie earnestly, and 
 with well-aflected agitation. And she 
 thrust the " fause loon," as she called 
 him, into the closet already referred to ; 
 and, bidding him remain there as still as 
 death till she came for him, she shut the 
 
 door. The finale was now at hand. 
 Having secured Sandy, and placed him 
 in the proper position, Mysie hastened to 
 find her young mistress. She had not to 
 go far to succeed in this. Miss Barrow- 
 man was at hand. She had been watch- 
 ing the whole proceedings. The two, 
 however, having now met, were obliged, 
 before advancing another step in the pro- 
 gramme of their trick, to rush to a distant 
 part of the house, in order to relieve 
 themselves, by some free bursts of laugh- 
 ter, of the pain which they were suffering . 
 from its suppression. Having obtained 
 this relief by two or three hearty and con- 
 tinuous peals, and having regained suffi- 
 cient composure to go through with the 
 remainder of the evening's proceedings, 
 the mistress and maid again approached 
 the den in which they had secured their 
 unsuspecting victim. 
 
 With a somewhat similar feeling, how- 
 ever, with that which prompts the cat to 
 delay the coup de grace to the unfortu- 
 nate mouse which its evil stars have put 
 in her power, did Miss Barrowman and 
 her maid Mysie determine on having a 
 little more sport with their victim before 
 visiting him with the cold catastrophe in 
 store for him. 
 
 With this view. Miss Barrowman her- 
 self now advanced, on tiptoe, to the door 
 of the closet in which Sandy was confined j 
 and, in a whisper, directed through the 
 keyhole said — 
 
 " Are ye comfortable, Sandy .?" 
 
 " I canna say that preceesly," replied 
 Sandy, in the same tone ; " but I'm as 
 weel as can be expeckit. Mysie 's no 
 gaun aboot, is she .?" he added. Mysie 
 was now standing close by her mistress. 
 
 He was assured she was not. 
 
 ^' Whan wilPt be convenient to let me 
 oot ?" resumed Sandy. 
 
 " Presently, Sandy," was the reply. 
 " But are ye sure, now, that ye detest 
 Mysie, and that ye like me ?" 
 
 " As fac's death, mem," replied Sandy, 
 energetically. 
 
60 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Miss Barrowman and Mysie now trip- 
 ped away to put their last move in execu- 
 tion. A moment's dead silence occurred. 
 In the nextj an appalling shout, or rather 
 roar, accompanied by the squashing, 
 plashy sound of a tremendous descent of 
 water, announced that Sandy had been 
 suddenly subjected to the cooling influ- 
 ence of a mysterious deluge of some idnd 
 or other. This was the fact, then, good 
 reader. Sandy had been closeted in a 
 shower-bath, and was, at this moment, en- 
 joying the most liberal dispensation of 
 that ingenious contrivance. For some 
 seconds, both the plashing of the water 
 and the shouting of the sufferer continued 
 with unabated vigor ; but at length, the 
 former, but not the latter, ceased, and 
 that instant Miss Barrowman and her 
 maid, each with a candle in their hands, 
 threw up the door of the shower-bath 
 closet, and, with well-affected alarm and 
 astonishment, simultaneously exclaimed, 
 "Sandy Oswald!" 
 
 " Gracious me ! what brought ye here, 
 Sandy .^" added Mysie. " Hoo on earth 
 got ye in here, and what brought ye ? 
 Vv'^hat war ye wantin P^ 
 
 " What brought ye into my house, sir ?" 
 chimed in Miss Barrowman, with assumed 
 severity of manner. " What business 
 have you here ? You could not surely 
 have been intending any good. It is a 
 strange affair, and I must know the mean- 
 ing of it." 
 
 To all these questions and remarks, 
 Sandy made no reply ; and, for a very 
 good reason, he did not know what reply 
 to make, but stood squeezed up into a cor- 
 ner of the bath, where he had vainly 
 sought to escape the deluge that was 
 pouring down on him from above, and of 
 whose source he could form no idea — 
 having never seen or heard of such a 
 thing as a shower-bath in his life. 
 
 Squeezed up into a corner, then, and 
 having a very strong resemblance to a 
 huge half- drowned rat, stood Sandy, as 
 we have said, during the delivery of the 
 
 above queries and remarks by his two tor- 
 mentors. To these, as we have also already 
 said, Sandy had yet made no reply. He 
 was much too confounded by his present 
 situation to admit of that. He was 
 drenched to the skin by some mysterious 
 deluge ; he was exposed to the eye of 
 Mysie ; his faithlessness was about being 
 discovered ; and, to crown all. Miss Bar- 
 rowman seemed desirous of withdrawing 
 
 o 
 
 her patronage — nay, of denying altogether 
 her having inveigled him into the house ; 
 and, to add still farther to his confusion, 
 he thought the little he now heard of IMiss 
 Barrowman's voice did not resemble that 
 of his fair garden companion ; but he 
 could not exactly tell. He did not, in 
 short, know what to think of the matter. 
 He had, however, a confused idea of there 
 being something wrong somewhere. 
 
 " Come oot o' that, man," at length 
 said Mysie. Sandy mechanically obeyed, 
 with a forced unmeaning smile on his 
 countenance, but still without speaking. 
 When he had fairly emerged from his 
 watery retreat — 
 
 " Nae fear o' Mysie comin this way, 
 my leddy .^" said Mysie, imitating the tone 
 in which her faithless lover had put the 
 same question in the garden ; and hold- 
 ins; the candle close to his face in order to 
 enjoy a full view of its expression under 
 the infliction of the torture. " She ken's 
 nacthing aboot oor meeting, I houp .'" 
 continued Mysie. " Wadna he be ill aff 
 for a wife that wad tak INIysie Blackater ^ 
 Wadna he, Sandy } I'm sure ye wadna 
 gie a strae for her — an ugly pukit thing ; 
 and although ye hae sworn a hunner times 
 that she should ae day be yours, and that 
 ye liked her aboon a' ither things on this 
 earth, it was a' juist a piece o' nonsense, 
 spoken for fun. A thing ye never intend- 
 ed. Wasna't Sandy, lad ; wasna't — eh .^" 
 
 We leave the reader to judge of Sandy's 
 feelings during this operation of serving 
 him up with his own faithless words. We 
 should have a dijficulty in describing them, 
 but more in describing what he did, and 
 
 L 
 
THE WOOERS. 
 
 61 
 
 how lie looked under the torturing pro- 
 cess. This was exceedingly like a fool, 
 with an unnatural and inane smile on his 
 very stupid face, which he directed alter- 
 nately to Mysie and her mistress, but still 
 without giving utterance to a single sylla- 
 ble. 
 
 After Mysie had put her deceitful 
 swain through his facings, her mistress 
 took up the cue and began : — 
 
 " Perhaps the honor of your visit, San- 
 dy, was intended for me P^ 
 
 Sandy grinned. 
 
 " Probably you have been struck with 
 a fancy to become Laird of Netherlea, 
 Sandy, and lord and master of its lady. 
 Was that the object of your adventure ? 
 Was it that that brought you here .?" 
 
 " Ke', ke', mem, Pm sure ye ken that 
 weel aneuch," said Sandy, with a very 
 broad grin, and now speaking for the first 
 time. " Didna yc bring me here, yersel, 
 frae the garden .?" 
 
 " No, you fause-hearted villain, it was 
 me," here interposed Mysie, fiercely. 
 " It was me that met ye in the garden, 
 and it was into my ain twa lugs that ye 
 poured a' your hypocritical and deceitful 
 speeches. 'Od, I hae a guid mind to 
 cleave ye wi' the candlestick ;" and My- 
 sie flourished that formidable weapon as if 
 she was about to execute the deed she 
 menaced. But although she had intend- 
 ed to do so desperate a thing, Sandy took 
 care that it should not be in her power. 
 He had, for the last two or three minutes, 
 been eyeing the door with a wistful look, 
 and, at this critical moment, availed him- 
 self of the observations he had made by 
 making a sudden bolt towards it, and 
 another out of it, and away like a grey 
 hound. The whole proceeding was the 
 work of an instant, and waa accomplished 
 before IMysie or her mistress could make 
 any remark on the subject. 
 
 On clearing the house, Sandy kept at 
 the top of his speed, and without looking 
 either to the right or to the left, till he 
 reached his mother's house, where he flung; 
 
 himself down in a chair in a state of breath- 
 less exhaustion. 
 
 '' Losh hae a care o' me, Sandy, what's 
 the matter .?" said his mother, in great 
 alarm. " Ye're clean dune oot ; and 
 Lord be wi' us," she said, putting her 
 hand on his soaked jacket, " ye're a' wat. 
 Ye're dreeping, I declare. Hae ye fa'n 
 into ony water .^" 
 
 " I didna gang to the water, mither— 
 the water cam to me," replied Sandy. 
 
 " What do you mean by that Sandy, my 
 man .'"' inquired his mother. 
 
 '' Tuts, it's a lang story, and no worth 
 tellin," said her son, who did not care to 
 enter into particulars regarding his night's 
 adventure. 
 
 " Weel, then, my man, how came ye on 
 wi' the leddy o' Nctherlea ? Did ye fore- 
 o;ather wi' her ?" 
 
 " Ou, ay," replied Sandy drily. 
 
 " An' how cam ye on, then, wi' her .?" 
 inquired the anxious mother. " Did ye 
 speak her fair and cannily ?" 
 
 " Weel aneuch that way, I fancy," said 
 Sandy, with the same brevity, and the 
 same evident disinclination to be commu- 
 nicative on the subject. 
 
 " Dear me, my man, Sandy," rejoined 
 his mother, impatiently, provoked by his 
 taciturnity on a matter in which she felt 
 so deeply interested, " can ye no tell me 
 at ance how cam ye on." 
 
 " Pll tell ye something at ance, mither," 
 replied Sandy, with an equal degree of 
 impatience, " and that is, that ony body 
 that likes may tak the leddy o' Netherlea 
 for me. That I'll hae naething mair ado 
 wi' her, and that they'll be devilish weel 
 educat that'll catch me gaun after an 
 heiress again — that's a' I say, mither ;" 
 and saying this, Sandy began to divest 
 himself of his drenched garments, and im- 
 mediately after rolled his chilled body into 
 bed, without vouchsafing another word on 
 the subject of his experience of that event- 
 ful night. Nor could he, at any time after, 
 ever be induced, by his affectionate parent, 
 to shed the smallest degree of additional 
 
 -i 
 
63 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 light on that experience, or to give any 
 account whatever of the incidents it in- 
 cluded. 
 
 With regard to the heiress of Nether- 
 lea, we believe, that attaining wisdom 
 with years, she finally married a person 
 
 better suited by birth and education to 
 her own tastes, habits, and pursuits, than 
 she could possibly have found in a plough- 
 man, however worthy and deserving in 
 other respects such a person might have 
 been. 
 
 MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN; 
 
 A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY, 
 
 CHAP. I. A WAY OF MAKING MONEY. 
 
 All the world knows that Mandeville, 
 the author of the " Fable of the Bees," 
 and Shaftesbury, the author of the " Cha- 
 racteristics," divided a great portion of 
 mankind on a question which is now no 
 question at all. That there are, assured- 
 ly, some instances to be met with of ra- 
 tional bipeds, who exhibit scarcely any 
 traces of a moral sense, and act altogether 
 upon the principle of selfishness, we do 
 not deny; but this admission does not 
 bind us to the selfish theory, for the very 
 good reason, that we hold these creatures 
 to be nothing better than a species of 
 monsters. Nor do we think the world, 
 with the tendency to self-love that prevails 
 in it, would have been the better for the 
 want of these living, walking exemplars of 
 their patron — the devil ; for, of a surety, 
 they show us the fallen creature in all liis 
 naked deformity, and make us hate the 
 principle of evil through the ugly flesh- 
 case in which it works, and the noisome 
 overt acts it turns up in the repugnant 
 nostrils of good men. Now, if you are 
 an inhabitant of that scandalous free-stone 
 village that lies near Arthur Seat, and 
 took its name from tlie Northumbrian 
 king, Edwin — corrupted, by the conceit 
 of the inhabitants, into Edin — you will 
 
 say that we mean something personal in 
 these remarks ; and, very probably, when 
 we mention the name of Mr. Samuel 
 Ramsay Thriven, who, about twenty years 
 after Mr. John Neal introduced to the 
 admiring eyes of the inhabitants of the 
 Scottish metropolis the term haberdasher, 
 carried on that trade in one of the princi- 
 pal streets of the city, our intention will 
 be held manifest. And what then f We 
 will only share the fate, without exhibiting 
 the talent of Horace, and shall care no- 
 thing if we return his good-humor — a 
 quality of far greater importance to man- 
 kind than even that knowled^-e "which 
 is versant with the stars." 
 
 Now, this Mr. Samuol Ramsay Thriven, 
 who took up, as we have already signified, 
 the trade designated by the strange appel- 
 lative introduced by the said John Neal, 
 was one of those dabblers in morals who 
 endeavor to make the whole system of 
 morality accord with their own wishes. 
 As to the moral sense, so strongly insisted 
 for by the noble author of the " Charac- 
 teristics," he considered it as a taste some- 
 thing like that for vcitu^ which a man 
 might have or not have just as it pleased 
 Dame Nature, or Mr. Syntax Pedagogue, 
 but which he could pretend to have as 
 often and in as great profusion as it pleased 
 himself. It was, he acknowledged, a very 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 C3 
 
 good thing to have, sometimes, about one, 
 but there were many things in the world 
 far better — such as money, a good house, 
 good victuals, good clothing, and so forth. 
 It was again, sometimes, a thing a man 
 miiiht be much better without. It formed 
 a stumbling-block to prosperity ; and 
 when, at the long run, a man had made to 
 it many sacriiices, and become a beggar, 
 "rich in the virtue of good oflices," he 
 did not find that it got him a softer bed in 
 an almshouse, or a whiter piece of bread 
 at the door of the rich. These sentiments 
 were probably strengthened by the view 
 he took of the world, and especially of 
 our great country where there is a mighty 
 crying, and a mighty printing, about vir- 
 tue, magnanimity, and honesty, in the ab- 
 stract, while there is, probably, less real 
 active honesty than might be found among 
 the Karomantyns — yea, or the Hottentots 
 or Clierokees. Then, too, it could not be 
 denied that " riches cover a multitude of 
 sins ;" why, then, should not Mr. Thriven 
 strive to get rich ? 
 
 Upon such a theory did Mr. Samuel 
 Thriven propose to act. It had clearly 
 an advantage over theories in general, in 
 so much as it was every day reduced to 
 practice by a great proportion of mankind, 
 and so proved to be a good workable 
 speeidation. That ho intended to follow 
 out the practical part of his scheme with 
 the same wisdom he had exhibited in 
 choosing his theory of morals, may bt; 
 safely doubted. Caution, which is of great 
 use to all men in a densely populated 
 country, is an indispensable elemcsnt in the 
 composition of one who would ]>c. vwU at 
 the expense of others. A good-natured 
 man will often allow himself to be cheated 
 out of a sum which is not greater than the 
 price of his ease, and there are a great 
 nuinb-r of such good-natured men in all 
 communities. It is upon these that clever 
 men operate ; without them a great portion 
 of tlio cleverest would starve. They are 
 the lambs with sweet flesh and soft wool, 
 making the plains a paradise for the Avolves. 
 
 A system of successful operations carried 
 on against these ipnet subjects, for a num- 
 ber of years, might have enabled Mr. 
 Samuel Ramsay Thriven to have retired, 
 with his feelings of enjoyment blunted, 
 and his conscience ipiiekened, to some 
 romantic spot where he might have turned 
 poetical. An idle man is always, to somo 
 extent, a poet ; and a rogue makes often 
 a good sentimentalist. 
 
 This ought clearly to have been the 
 course which worldly caution should have 
 suggested as the legitimate working out of 
 the theory of selfishness. 13ut Mr. Thri- 
 ven wag not gifted with the virtue of ])a- 
 tience to the sanu"^ extent that he was with 
 the spirit of theorizing on the great pro- 
 cess of getting rich, lie wanted to seize 
 Plutus by a coup de main., and hug the 
 god until he got out of him a liberal al- 
 lowance. The plan has been attended 
 with success ; but it is always a dangerous 
 one. The great deity of wealth has been 
 painted lame, blind, and foolish, because 
 he gives, without distinction, to the unde- 
 serving as well as to the worthy — to the 
 bad often more than to the good. It is 
 seldom his god-ship will be coaxed into a 
 gift ; and if lie is attempted to be forced, 
 he can use his lame leg, and send tlie 
 rough worshipper to the devil. Neitluu- 
 can we say that Mr. Thriven's scheme 
 was new or ingenious, being no other than 
 to " break with the full hand " — a project 
 of great anticpiity in Scotland, and struck 
 at, for the first time, by the act 1G21, cap. 
 18. It existed, iiuh^ed, in ancient Rome, 
 and was compreliended imder the general 
 name of stellionate, from stelio, a littlo 
 subtle serpent, common in Italy. Always 
 in great vogue in our country, it at one 
 time roused tlu^ choler of our judges to 
 such an extent tliat they condemned the 
 culprits eith(U- to Avear the yellow (!ap and 
 stockings of different colors, or be for ever 
 at the mercy of their creditors. But 
 these tiuies had gone by, and a man might 
 make a very respectable thing of a break, 
 if he could manage it adroitly enough to 
 
61 
 
 TALES OB' THE BORDERS. 
 
 make It api3ear that he had himself been 
 the victim of misplaced confidence. So 
 Mr. Samuel having given large orders to 
 the English houses for goods, at a pretty 
 long credit, got himself in debt to an 
 amount proportioned to the sum he wished 
 to make by his failure. There is no place 
 in the world where a man may get more 
 easily in debt than in Scotland. We go 
 for a decent, composed, shrewd, honest 
 people ; and, though we are very adequate- 
 ly and sufficiently hated by the volatile 
 English, whom we so often beat on their 
 own ground, and at their own weapons, 
 we enjoy a greater share of their confidence 
 in mercantile matters than their own coun- 
 trymen. Vouchsafe to John the privilege 
 of abusing Sawney, and calling him all 
 manner of hard names, and he will allow 
 his English neck to be placed in the 
 Scotch noose, with a civility and decorum 
 that is just as commendable as his abuse 
 of our countryman is ungenerous and un- 
 manly. Mr. Thriven's warehouses were, 
 accordingly, soon filled with goods from 
 both England and Scotland ; and it is no 
 inconsiderable indication of a man's re- 
 spectability that he is able to get pretty 
 largely in debt. When a man is to enter 
 upon the speculations of failing, the step 
 we have now mentioned is the first and 
 most important preliminary. Debt is the 
 Ossa which from the successful speculator 
 rolls into the rich vale of Tempe. There 
 are some rugged rocks in the side of his 
 descent to independence— such as the ex- 
 aminations under the statutes — that are 
 next to be guarded against, and the get- 
 ting over these is a more difficult achieve- 
 ment than the getting himself regularly 
 constituted a debtor. The running away 
 of a trusty servant with a hundred pounds, 
 especially if he has forged the cheque, 
 may be the making of a good speculator 
 in bankruptcy, because the loss of a thou- 
 sand or two may be safely laid to the 
 charge of one who dare not appear to de- 
 fend himself. The failure and flight of a 
 relation, to whom one gives a hundred 
 
 pounds to leave him in his books a credi- 
 tor in a thousand, is also a very good 
 mode of overcoming some of the difficul- 
 ties of failing ; and a clever man, with a 
 sharp foresight, ought to be working as- 
 siduously for a length of time in collecting 
 the names of removing families, every one 
 of whom will make a good " bad debtor." 
 These things were not unknown to Mr. 
 Thriven ; but accident did what the devil 
 was essaying to do for him, or rather, 
 speaking in a more orthodox manner, the 
 great enemy, taking the form of the mighty 
 power, yclept Chance, set the neighbor- 
 ing uninsured premises, belonging to Miss 
 Fortune, the milliner, in a blaze ; and a 
 large back warehouse, in which there was 
 scarcely anything save Mr. Thriven's led- 
 gers, was burnt so efi"ectually, that no per- 
 son could have told whether they were full 
 of Manchester goods, or merely atmo- 
 spheric air of the ordinary weight — that is, 
 thirty-one grains to a hundred cubic 
 inches. 
 
 When a respectable man wishes ardently 
 for a calamity, he arrays his face in comely 
 melancholy, because he has too much re- 
 spect for public decorum to outrage the 
 decencies of life. Mr. Samuel Ramsay 
 Thriven accordingly looked the loss he 
 had sustained with a propriety that might 
 have done honor to a widower between 
 whom and a bad wife the cold grave has 
 been shut for the space of a day, and then 
 set about writing circulars to his creditors, 
 stating that, owing to his having sustained 
 a loss through the burning of a warehouse 
 where he had deposited three thousand 
 pounds worth of goods, he was under the 
 necessity of stopping payment. No at- 
 torney ever made more of letter-writing 
 than Mr. Samuel did on that day : in 
 place of three shillings and fourpence for 
 two pages, every word he penned was 
 equal to a pound. 
 
 CHAP. II. THE INSCRIPTION. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Samuel Thriven, after 
 he had retired to his house, " this has been 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 65 
 
 hard and hot work ; but, a man has a sa- 
 tisfaction in doing his duty, and that satis- 
 faction may not be diminished by a bottle 
 of port." 
 
 Now the port was as good as Ofiey's ; 
 and Mr. Thriven's thirst was nothing the 
 less for the fire of the previous night, 
 which he had done his utmost not to ex- 
 tinguish, and as he was in good spirits, he, 
 like those people in good health, who, to 
 make themselves better, begin to take in' a 
 load of Morrison's pills, drew another 
 cork, with that increased sound which be- 
 longs peculiarly to second bottles, and, in 
 a short time, was well through with his 
 potation. " How much, now," said he, 
 as he pretended, in a knowing way, to look 
 for a dead fly in the glass, which he held 
 up between him and the candle, shutting, 
 in the operation, the left eye, according to 
 the practice of connoisseurs — " How much 
 may I make of this transaction in the way 
 of business ? Let me see — let me see." 
 
 And, as he accordingly tried to see, he 
 took down from the mantelpiece an ink- 
 bottle and a pen, and, having no paper 
 within reach, he laid hold of a small book, 
 well-known to serious-minded people, and 
 which was no other, in fact, than " The 
 Pilgrim's Progress," But it was all one 
 to Mr. Samuel Ramsay Thriven, in the 
 middle of his second bottle, what the book 
 was, provided it had a blank leaf at the 
 beginning or end thereof. It might, in- 
 deed, have been the " Louping-on-Stone 
 for Heavy-Bottomed Believers," or the 
 '^ Economy of Human Life," or the 
 ^' Young Man's Best Companion," or " A 
 New Way to Pay Old Debts ;" or any 
 other book or brochure in the wide repub- 
 lic of letters which the wisdom or wit of 
 man has ever produced. It may verily be 
 much doubted if he knew himself what 
 book it was. 
 
 '' Well, let me see," he said again, as 
 he seized the pen, and held the blank leaf 
 open before him. " The three thousand 
 pounds lost by the fire is a very good item ; 
 I can easily make a very good list of very 
 
 VOL. II. 5 
 
 bad debts to the extent of five hundred 
 pounds ; I have three thousand of good 
 bank-notes in the house ; and if I get off 
 with a dividend of five shillings in the 
 pound, which I can pay out of my stock, 
 I may clear by this single transaction, in 
 the way of business, as much as may make 
 me comfortable for the whole period of my 
 natural life." 
 
 And havino; made some monoloo;ue of 
 this kind, he began to jot down particu- 
 lars ; laying on the table his pen, occa- 
 sionally, to take another glass of the port 
 wine, and resuming his operation again, 
 with that peculiar zest which accompanies 
 a playfulness of the fancy on a subject of 
 darling interest. So he finished his arith- 
 metical operation and dream, just about 
 the time when the wine finished him ; fell 
 sound asleep ; and awoke about two in the 
 morning, with a headache, and no more 
 recollection of having committed his se- 
 cret to the blank leaf of " The Pilgrim's 
 Progress," than if he had never written a 
 word thereon at all. 
 
 CHAP. III. THE FACING OF CREDITORS. 
 
 Of all men in the world, a bankrupt re- 
 quires to wear a lugubrious look. It is 
 proper, too, that he should keep the house, 
 hold out the flag of distress, and pretend 
 that he is an unfortunate mortal, who has 
 been the prey either of adverse fate or de- 
 signing rogues. Of all this Mr. Thriven 
 was well aware as ever man could be ; no 
 man could have acted the dyvour better 
 than he, even though he had been upon 
 the pillory, with the bankrupt's yellow cap 
 on his head. Creditors kept calling upon 
 him — some threatening imprisonment, and 
 some trying to cajole him out of a prefer- 
 ence ; but Mr. Samuel was a match for 
 them all. 
 
 " It is all very well to look thus con- 
 cernedly," said Mr. Horner, a large cre- 
 ditor ; " but will this pay the two hundred 
 pounds you owe me .?" 
 
 " Would to heaven that it miorht !" re- 
 plied Mr. Thriven, drawing his hand over 
 
66 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 his eyes ; " but, alas ! it is tlie peculiar 
 feature of tlie misfortune of bankruptcy, 
 that a man who has been himself ruined 
 ay, burnt out of his stock by a fire that 
 he had no hand in raising, and thus made 
 a beggar of, probably for ever — receives 
 not a single drop of sympathy in return 
 for all the tears he sheds for his unfortu- 
 nate creditors. Your case concerns, me, 
 sir, most of all ; and, were it for nothing in 
 the wide world but to make up your loss, 
 I will strive with all my energies, even to 
 the urging of the blood from the ends of 
 my laborious fingers, and to the latest pe- 
 riod of a wretched existence." 
 
 And Mr. Horner being mollified, he was 
 next attacked by Mr. Wrench. 
 
 " It is but fair to inform you, sir," said 
 the vulture-faced dealer in ginghams, 
 " that I intend to try the effect of the 
 prison upon you." 
 
 " That is because the most wicked of 
 nature's elements — fire — has rendered me 
 a beggar," replied Mr. Samuel, rubbing 
 again his eyes. " It is just the way of this 
 world : when fate has rendered a man un- 
 fortunate, his fellow creature, man, falls 
 upon him to complete his wretchedness ; 
 even like the creatures of the forest, who 
 fall upon the poor stag that has been 
 wounded by the fall from the crags, man 
 is ever cruelest to him who is already 
 down. Yet you, who threaten to put me 
 in jail, are the creditor of all others whose 
 case concerns me most. The feeling for 
 my own loss is nothing to what I suffer for 
 yours ; and, I will never be satisfied till, 
 by hard labor, I make up to you what I 
 have been the unwilling and unconscious 
 instrument of depriving you of." 
 
 And having got quit of Wrench, who 
 declared himself not satisfied, though his 
 threat, as he departed, was more feebly 
 expressed, he was accosted by Mr. Bairns- 
 father. 
 
 " Your face, sir, tortures me," said 
 
 Mr. Samuel, turning away his head, " even 
 as one is tortured by the ghost of the 
 friend he has murdered with a bloody and 
 
 relentless hand. All my creditors put to- 
 gether do not furnish me matter of grief 
 equal to your individual case. Do not I 
 know that you are the father of ten chil- 
 dren, whom probably I have ruined. Yet 
 am I not also ruined, and all by a misfor- 
 tune whose origin is beyond the ken of 
 mortals." 
 
 " You have spoken a melancholy truth, 
 Mr. Thriven," replied the father; "but 
 will that truth feed my children." 
 
 " No, sir ; but I will feed them, when 
 once discharged under a sequestration," 
 rejoined Mr. Thriven. '' Your case, 
 above all the others, it shall be my care to 
 assuage. Nor night nor day shall see my 
 energies relaxed, till this wrong shall be 
 made right." 
 
 " Our present necessities must be re- 
 lieved," rejoined " the parent." " Could 
 you not give us a part of our debt, in the 
 meantime." 
 
 " And be dishonest in addition to being 
 unfortunate !" ejaculated IMr. Samuel. 
 " That, sir, is the worst cut of all. No, 
 no. I may be imprisoned, I may be fed 
 on bread and water, I may be denied the 
 benefit of the act of grace, but I shall never 
 be forced to give an undue preference to 
 one creditor over another. You forget, 
 Mr. Baii-nsfather, that a bankrupt may 
 have a conscience." 
 
 After much more of such converse, IMr. 
 Bairnsfather retired. And the next who 
 came for the relief which she was not des- 
 tined to receive, was Widow Mercer. 
 
 " This is a dreadful business, Mr. 
 Thriven," said she, as she ran forwards 
 in the confusion of unfeigned anguish. 
 
 " Dreadful, indeed, my good lady," 
 answered he ; " and who can feel it more 
 than myself — that is, after you." 
 
 " You are a man, and I am a woman," 
 rejoined the disconsolate creditor ; " a 
 woman who has struggled since the death 
 of her good husband, to support herself 
 and a headless family, who, but for their 
 mother's industry, might have, ere now, 
 been reduced to seek their bread as the 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 boon of pity. But, all sir, it cannot be, that 
 you are to class me with the rest of your 
 creditors. They are men, and may make 
 up their losses in some other way. To 
 me the loss of fifty pounds would be total 
 ruin. Oh sir, you will ! — I know by that 
 face of sympathy, you will make me an 
 exception. Heaven will bless you for it ; 
 and my children will pray for you to the 
 end of our lives." 
 
 " All this just adds to my misery," re- 
 plied Mr. Samuel, " and that misery, 
 heaven knows, is great, enough alread3^ 
 Your case is that of the mother and the 
 widow ; and what need is there for a sin- 
 gle word, to tell me that it stands apart 
 from all the others. But, madam, were I to 
 pay your debt, do not you see that both 
 you and I would be acting against the 
 laws of our country. What supports 
 me, think ye, under my misfortune, but 
 the consciousness of innocence. Now, 
 you would cruelly take away from me that 
 consciousness, whereby, for the sake of a 
 fifty pound note, you would render me 
 miserable here, and a condemned man 
 hereafter. A hotter fire, of a verity, there 
 is, than that which burnt up my stock. 
 But I am bound to make amends for the 
 loss I have brought upon you ; and you 
 may rest assured that, as soon as I am 
 discharged, I will do my best for you and 
 your poor bereaved sons and daughters." 
 
 And thus Mr. Thriven manao;ed these 
 importunate beings, termed creditors, in 
 a manner that he, doubtless, considered 
 highly creditable to himself, in so far as 
 he thereby spread more widely the fact 
 that he had been ruined by no fault of his 
 own, at the same time that he proved him- 
 self to be a man of feeling, justice, and 
 sentiment. Meanwhile, his agent, Mr. 
 Sharp, was as busy as ever an attorney 
 could be, in getting out a sequestration, 
 with the indispensable adjunct of a per- 
 sonal protection, which the Lords very 
 willingly granted upon the lugubrious ap- 
 peal, set forth in the petition, that JMr. 
 Thriven's misfortunes were attributable to 
 
 the element of fire. A fifty pound note 
 too, sent his shopman, Mr. Joseph Closs- 
 muns, over the Atlantic ; and, the coast 
 being clear, Mr. Thriven went through 
 hivS examinations with considerable eclat. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 -THE WINDFALL. 
 
 " These men," said Mr. Thriven, after 
 he got home to dinner, ^' have worried 
 me so by their questions, that they have 
 imposed upon me the necessity of taking 
 some cooling liquor to allay the fervor of 
 my blood. I must drink to them besides, 
 for they were, upon the whole, less severe 
 than they might have been ; and a bottle 
 of cool claret will answer both ends. And 
 now," he continued, after he drank ofi" a 
 bumper to the long lives of his creditors 
 — " the greatest part of my danger being 
 over, I can see no great risk of my failing 
 in getting them to accept a composition 
 of five shillings in the pound. But what 
 then ? I have no great fancy to the 
 counter. After all, a haberdasher is at 
 best but a species of man milliner ; and I 
 do not see why I should not, when I get 
 my discharge in my pocket, act the gen- 
 tleman as well as the best of them. All 
 that is necessary is to get the devout Miss 
 Angelina M'Falzen, who regenerates the 
 species by distributing good books, to con- 
 sent to be my wife. She has a spare 
 figure, a sharp face, and a round thousand. 
 Her fortune will be a cover to my idleness ; 
 and then I can draw upon the sum I have 
 made by my failure, just as occasion re- 
 quires." 
 
 At the end of this monologue, a sharp 
 broken voice was heard in the passage ; 
 and Mr. Samuel Thriven's bottle of claret 
 was, in the twinkling of an eye, replaced 
 by a jug of cool spring water. 
 
 " Ah, how do you do, my dear Miss 
 M'Falzen.?" cried Mr. Samuel, as he rose 
 to meet his devout sweetheart. 
 
 " Sir," responded the devout distribu- 
 ter of tracts, stiffly and coldly, *' you are 
 in far better spirits than becomes one who 
 is the means of bringing ruin on so many 
 
Gd 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 families. I expected to have found yon 
 contrite of heart, and of a comely sadness 
 of spirits and seriousness of look." 
 
 " And yet I am only feasting on cold 
 water," replied Samuel, letting the mus- 
 cles of his face fall, as he looked at the 
 jug. " But you know. Miss Angelina, 
 that I am innocent of the consequences of 
 the fire, and, when one has a clear con- 
 science, he may be as happy in adversity 
 over a cup of water, as he may be in pros- 
 perity over a bottle of claret." 
 
 " A pretty sentiment, Mr. Thriven — 
 la ! a beautiful sentiment," replied Miss 
 Angelina ; " and, satisfied as I am of your 
 purity, let me tell you that our intercourse 
 shall not, with my will, be interrupted by 
 your misfortune. I would rather, indeed, 
 feel a delight in soothing you under your 
 affliction, and administering the balm of 
 friendship to the heart that is contrite, 
 under the stroke which cannot be avert- 
 ed." 
 
 " And does my Angelina," cried Samu- 
 el, " regard me with the same kindness and 
 tenderness in my present reduced circum- 
 stances, as when I was engaged in a flourish- 
 ing trade, which might have emboldened 
 me to hope for a still more intimate, ay, 
 and sacred connexion .''" 
 
 "Mr. Thriven," replied the other, 
 gravely, '^ I have called in behalf of Mrs. 
 Mercer." 
 
 Samuel's face underwent some consider- 
 able change. 
 
 " I have called in behalf of Mrs. Mer- 
 cer, who has reported to me some senti- 
 ments stated by you to her, of so beautiful 
 and amiable a character, and so becoming 
 a Christian, that I admire you for them. 
 You promised to do your utmost, after 
 you are discharged to make amends to 
 her and her poor family for the loss she 
 will sustain by your bankruptcy. Ah, 
 sir, that alone proves to me that you are 
 an honest, innocent, and merely unfortu- 
 nate insolvent ; and to show you that I am 
 not behind you in magnanimity, I have paid 
 her the fifty pounds wherein you were in- 
 
 debted to her, and got an assignation to 
 her debt. You may pay me when you 
 please ; and, meanwhile, I will accept of 
 the composition you intend to ofier to your 
 creditors." 
 
 " Fifty pound ofi'her tocher," mutter- 
 ed Samuel between his teeth, and then 
 took a drink of the cold water, in the full 
 memory of the claret. 
 
 '^ It scarcely beseems a man," said he. 
 "to be aught but a silent listener when 
 his pra,ise is spoken by one he loves and 
 respects. But, it is possible. Miss M'Fal- 
 zen, that my misfortune has not changed 
 those feelings — those — excuse me. Miss 
 Angelina — those intentions with which I 
 had reason to believe, you regarded me." 
 
 And, with great gallantr}^, he seized 
 the fair spinster round the waist, as he 
 had been in the habit of doino- before he 
 
 O 
 
 was a bankrupt, to show, at least, that he 
 was now no bankrupt in affection. 
 
 " To be plain with you, sir," replied 
 she, wriggling herself out of his hands, 
 " my intention once was to wait until I 
 saw whether you would come unscatched 
 and pure out of the fiery ordeal ; but, on 
 second thoughts, I conceived that this 
 would be unfair to one whom I had always 
 looked upon as an honest man, though, 
 probably, not so seriously minded a Chris- 
 tian as I could have wished ; therefore," 
 she added, smiling — yet no smiling matter 
 to Samuel — " I have, you see, trusted you 
 fifty pounds — a pretty good earnest — he ! 
 he ! — that my heart is just where it was." 
 
 Mr. Samuel Ramsay Thriven kissed 
 Miss Angelina M'Falzen. 
 
 " But oh, sir," she added, by way of 
 protest, " I hope and trust that not one 
 single spot shall be detected in your fair 
 fame and reputation, and that you will 
 come forth out of trial as unsullied in the 
 eyes of good men, as you were pure in 
 the estimation of one who thus proves for 
 you her attachment." 
 
 " Never doubt it," replied Mr. Samuel. 
 " Innocence gives me courage and confi- 
 dence." 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 69 
 
 He placed, theatrically, his hand on his 
 heart. 
 
 " And what think you," added Miss 
 Angelina, " of John Bunyan'sbook, which 
 I lent you, and which I now see lying 
 here ? Is it not a devout performance — 
 an extraordinary allegory ? How much 
 good I do by these kind of books ! Ha ! 
 by the by, Mrs. Bairnsfather, good crea- 
 ture, wishes to read it. So I shall just 
 put it in my pocket. To be plain with 
 you, she is much cast down, poor creature, 
 by the loss ,her husband has sustained 
 through your involuntary failure ; and I 
 have said that she will find much comfort 
 in the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' '' 
 
 " A stanch book, madam," replied 
 Samuel, seriously — " an extraordinary al- 
 legory, worth a piece of the vellum of the 
 old covenant. I have derived great satis- 
 faction and much good from it. I have 
 no doubt it will support her, as it has 
 done me, under our mutual affliction. 
 
 "Oh, how I do love to hear you talk 
 that way," replied Miss Angelina. " It 
 is so becoming your situation. When do 
 you think you will get a discharge ? I 
 will answer for Mr. Bairnsfather agreeing 
 to the composition ; and you know I am 
 now a creditor myself in fifty pounds. Of 
 course you have my vote ; but you will 
 tell me all about it afterwards. Good 
 day, Mr. Thriven." 
 
 " Good day, Miss M'Falzen." 
 
 The w^hich lady was no sooner out than 
 was the bottle of claret. In a few minutes 
 more Mr. Thriven was lauo-hino: over his 
 replenished glass, as totally oblivious of 
 the secret carried away by his lover, on 
 the blank leaf of the good old tinker's 
 book, as he was on that night when he 
 made free with the two bottles of port as 
 good as Ofiey's. 
 
 " The matter looks well enough," said 
 he. " I can make no manner of doubt 
 that my composition will be accepted ; 
 and then, with the two thousand five hun- 
 dred, at least, that I will make of my 
 bankruptcy, and the round thousand pos- 
 
 sessed by Miss Angelina M'Falzen, I can 
 perform the part of a walking gentleman 
 on the great stage of the world." 
 
 " Is Mr. Thriven within .^" he now 
 heard asked at the door. 
 
 " Ho, it is Sharp !" muttered he, as he 
 shoved the bottle and the glass into a re- 
 cess, and laid again hold of the water 
 
 jug. 
 
 " Water, Thriven !'' cried the attorney, 
 
 as he bounded forward and seized the 
 bankrupt by the hand. " Water ; and 
 Miss Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie dead, 
 of a dead certainty, this forenoon ; and 
 you her nephew, and a will in her draw- 
 ers, written by Jem Birtwhistle, in your 
 favor, and her fortune ten thousand ; and 
 the never a mortal thought the old harri- 
 dan had more than a five hundred." 
 
 " The devil a drop !" cried Mr. Samu- 
 el Thriven. ^' The devil a drop of water ; 
 for, have I not in this press a half bottle 
 of claret, which I laid past there that day 
 of the fire, and never had the courage to 
 touch it since. But ine her heir ! Ho, Mr. 
 Joseph Sharp, you are, of a verity, fool- 
 ing a poor bankrupt, who has not a penny 
 in the world after setting aside his compo- 
 sition of five shillings in the pound. Me 
 her heir ! Why I was told by herself that 
 I was cut off with a shilling ; and yon 
 must say it seriously ere I believe a word 
 on't." 
 
 " I say it as seriously," replied the 
 writer, " as ever you answered a home- 
 thrust to-day in the sheriff's office, as to 
 the amount of stock you lost by the burn- 
 ing of your premises — as sure as a decree 
 of the fifteen. I say your loss had made 
 her repent ; so come away with the 
 claret.'-' 
 
 Mr. Thriven emptied the whole of the 
 half bottle, at one throw, into a tumbler. 
 
 " Drink, thou pink of an attorney !" 
 said he, and then fell back into his chair, 
 his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed on the 
 roof, and his two hands closed in each 
 other, as if each had been two notes for 
 five thousand each. 
 
70 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Are you mad, Mr. Thriven ?" cried 
 Sharp, after he had bolted the whole tum- 
 bler of claret. 
 
 " Yes !" answered Mr. Samuel Ram- 
 gay Thriven. 
 
 '' Have you any more of this Bonr- 
 deaux water in the house ?" 
 
 " Yes !" answered Mr. Thriven. " Open 
 that lockfast" (pointing to a press), ^' and 
 drink till you are only able to shout 
 ' M'Whirter'— * Cockenzie'— ' Thriven'— 
 ' ten thousand' — ' hurra !' — and let never a 
 word more come out of you, till you fall 
 dead drunk on the floor." 
 
 The first part of the request, at least, 
 was very-quickly obeyed, and two bottles 
 were placed on the table, one of which 
 the attorney bored in an instant, and had 
 a good portion of it rebottled in his sto- 
 mach by the time that Mr. Thriven got 
 his eyes taken off the roof of the cham- 
 ber. 
 
 " Hand me half a tumbler ?" cried he, 
 '' that I may gather my senses, and see 
 the full extent of my misfortune." 
 
 " Misfortune !" echoed Sharp. 
 
 " Ay f ' rejoined Samuel, as he turned 
 the bottom of the tumbler to the roof. 
 " Why did Grizel M'Whirter die, sir, 
 until I got my discharge .'*" 
 
 " Ah, sir !" replied Sharp, on whom 
 the wine was already beginning to operate 
 — " You have thus a noble opportunity 
 of being the architect of a reputation that 
 might be the envy of the world. You 
 can now pay your creditors in full — 
 twenty shillings in the pound, and retain 
 five thousand to yourself, with the cha- 
 racter of being that noblest work of Na- 
 ture — an honest man." 
 
 " When a thing is utterly beyond one's 
 reach," rejoined Samuel, looking, with a 
 wry face, right into the soul of the attor- 
 ney, " how beautiful it appears." 
 
 Sharp accepted coolly the cut, because 
 he had claret to heal it ; otherwise he 
 would have assuredly knocked down Mr. 
 Samuel Thriven. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Sharp !" 
 
 continued his friend ; " but I felt a little 
 pained, sir, at the high flown expression 
 of the great good that awaits me, as if I 
 were not already conscious of being, and 
 known to be that noblest work of Nature. 
 The cut came from you, Mr. Sharp, and 
 I only returned it. All I regret, sir, is 
 that my aunt did not live till I got my 
 discharge, because then, not being bound 
 to pay my creditors one farthing, I might 
 have paid them in full, without obligation 
 at all, and thereby have proved myself 
 what I am — a generous man. No more 
 of the claret. You must away with me 
 to Cockenzie, to see that the repositories 
 are sealed, and the will safe." 
 
 " By my faith, I forgot that !" replied 
 Sharp ; " a pretty good sign that, if you 
 are a generous man, I am not a selfish 
 one. We had better," he added, " let 
 the claret alone till we return from 
 Cockenzie. What think you .?" 
 
 Now Samuel had already told Sharp 
 that he was to have no more of the wine ; 
 and the question of the attorney, which 
 was a clear forestaller, would have an- 
 gered any man who was not an heir (five 
 minutes old) of ten thousand. But Sa- 
 muel knew better than to quarrel with the 
 attorney at that juncture ; so he answered 
 him in the affirmative ; and, in five mi- 
 nutes afterwards, the heir and the lawyer 
 were in a coach, driving off" to Cockenzie, 
 The bankrupt was^in a few minutes more, 
 in a dream — the principal vision of which 
 was himself in the act of paying his cre- 
 ditors in full with their own money, and 
 earning a splendid reputation for honosty.. 
 
 The sooner he performed the gloriaus 
 act, the greater credit he would secui*e by 
 it ; his name would be in the Courant 
 and the Mercury, headed by the large 
 letters — " Praiseworthy instance of hon- 
 esty, coming out, in full strength, from 
 the ordeal of fire.' ^ 
 
 " What has Miss Angelina M'Falzen 
 been doino: at the house of Mrs. Bairns- 
 father .^" cried Sharp, as he turned from 
 the window of the carriage (now in the 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 71 
 
 Canongate) to the face of Samuel, whose 
 eyes were fixed by the charm of his glo- 
 rious hallucination. 
 
 " Lending her the Pilgrim's Progress !" 
 answered Samuel, as he started from his 
 dream. 
 
 Now Sharp could not for the life of 
 him understand, this ready answer of his 
 friend, for he had put the query to awaken 
 him from his dream, and without the 
 slightest hope of receiving a reply to a 
 question, which savoured so much of the 
 character of questions in general ; so he 
 left him to his dream, and in a short time 
 they were at Cockenzie. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 -THE TEA PARTY. 
 
 ''' Well, my dear," said Mr. Bairns- 
 father to his wife, when he came home to 
 tea on that same afternoon of which we 
 hate now been narrating the incidents, 
 " I hope you are getting over our losses ; 
 yet T have no very good news for you to- 
 day, for all that Thriven intends to offer 
 of dividend is five shillings in the pound." 
 
 " It is but a weary world this we live 
 in !" said the disconsolate wife. "We 
 are all pilgrims ; and there is for each of 
 us some slough of despond, through which 
 we must struggle to the happy valley." 
 
 " What, ho !" rejoined the husband, 
 " I have come home to tea, and you are 
 giving me a piece of Bunyan. Come, lay 
 down your book, for Mr. Wrench and 
 Mr. Horner are to be here to get some of 
 your souchong." 
 
 " And I," replied the goodwife, " asked 
 Miss Angelina M'Falzen to come back 
 and get a cup with us. I could not do 
 less to the devout creature, for she took 
 the trouble of going to Mr. Thriven's to- 
 day, and getting from him ' The Pilgrim's 
 Progress,' that she might bring it to me 
 to reconcile me to the evils of life, and, 
 among the rest, the loss which we have 
 sustained by her friend^s failure." 
 
 " Poh ! I hate all Pilgrim's-Progress- 
 rcading insolvents !" rejoined the husband. 
 
 I taking the book out of his wife's hands. 
 I " Go, love, and get ready the tea, while 
 I sojourn with the Elstow tinker, in the 
 valley of humiliation, out of which a cup 
 of China brown stout and some converse will 
 transport me to the ' house beautiful.' " 
 
 And Mr. Bairnsfather, while his wife 
 went to prepare tea, and his many chil- 
 dren were dispersed here and there and 
 everywhere, got very rapidly into " Va- 
 nity Fair," of the which being somewhat 
 aweary as he said, with a yawn, he turned 
 the leaves over and over, and at last fixed 
 his eyes on the leaf that had once been, 
 thou2;h it was now no lonsjer, blank. The 
 awl of the Elstow tinker himself never 
 could have gone with greater determina- 
 tion through the leather of a pair of bel- 
 lows, than did Mr. Bairnsfather 's eye 
 seem to penetrate that written page. 
 Like the seer of the vision of a ghost in 
 the night, he drew his head back, and he 
 removed it forwards, and he shut his eyes, 
 and opened his eyes, and rubbed his eyes, 
 and the more he did all this, the more he 
 was* at a loss to comprehend what the 
 writing on the said blank leaf was intended 
 to carry to the eyes of mortals. It was of 
 the hand-writing of Mr. Samuel Ramsay 
 Thriven, for a certainty — he could swear 
 to it ; for the bill he had in his possession 
 — and whereby he would lose three fourth 
 parts of two hundred pounds — was written 
 in the same character. What could it 
 mean } 
 
 " What can it mean .'"' he said, again 
 and again. 
 
 " How should I, if you, who are a cle- 
 verer man, do not know, Mr. Bairnsfa- 
 ther," said Mr. Wrench, who was stand- 
 ing at his back, having entered in the 
 meantime. " I have read the ' Pilgrim's 
 Progress,' which Mrs. B. says you are 
 reading, more than once, and fairly admit 
 that there are obscure passages in it. But 
 here comes IMr. Horner, who can perhaps 
 unravel the mystery, if you can point out 
 what limb of the centipede allegory it is 
 which appears to you to have a limp." 
 
72 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " By my faith it is in the tail," said 
 Mr. Bairnsfather, as he still bored his eyes 
 into the end of the book. 
 
 " Let me see the passage," said Mr. 
 Horner. 
 
 And all the three began to look at the 
 writing, which set forth the heads and 
 particulars of Mr. Samuel Thriven's gain 
 by his bankruptcy. 
 
 " A very good progress for a pilgrim," 
 said Mr. Horner ; and they looked at 
 each other knowingly, and winked their 
 six eyes, and nodded their three heads. 
 
 Miss M'Falzen and the tea came in at 
 this moment. The three creditors were 
 mute, and the devout spinster was talk- 
 ative. Mrs. Bairnsfather then filled up 
 and handed round the tea-cups (they sat 
 all close to the table), and her husband 
 handed round to his two friends the book. 
 
 " What an interest that book does 
 produce," said Miss Angelina, apparently 
 piqued by the attention shown to the 
 genius of the tinker. 
 
 " Come, now. Miss Angelina," said 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather, " confess that that 
 copy produces no small interest in your- 
 self, considering the hands it was in to- 
 day." 
 
 " Fie, fie ! ma'am," rejoined the blush- 
 ing spinster. " How could the touch of 
 a man's fingers impart a charm to mere 
 paper. If Mr. Thriven had appended 
 some pretty piece of devout or poetical 
 sentiment to it, why, you know, that 
 would have made all the difference in the 
 world, ma'am. He is really an excellent 
 man, Mr. Thriven ; though we have all 
 suffered in consequence of his loss, yet, I 
 dare say, we all feel for his unmerited 
 misfortune." 
 
 The three creditors were too much ab- 
 sorbed in Bunyan even to smile. 
 
 " When did you lend this copy to Mr. 
 Thriven ?" inquired Mr. Wrench ; and 
 the two others fixed their eyes, filled with 
 awful import, on the face of the devout 
 spinster. 
 
 " Just the day before the fire !" replied 
 
 she; "and ah, sir, how delighted I am 
 that I did it, for he assures me that it has 
 sustained him wonderfully in his afflic- 
 tion." 
 
 The three men smiled, rose simultane- 
 ously, and retired to a parlor, taking 
 Bunyan with them. Their looks were 
 ominous ; and Mrs. Bairnsfather could 
 not, for the world, understand the mystery. 
 After some time, they returned, and look- 
 ed more ominously than before. 
 
 " It is worth three thousand pounds, if 
 it is worth a penny," said Mr. Horner, 
 seriously. 
 
 *' Every farthing of it," rejoined Mr. 
 Wrench. " The most extraordinary book 
 I ever saw in my life." 
 
 " An exposition miraculous, through 
 the agency of heaven," added Mr. Bairns- 
 father. 
 
 Now all this time their tea was cooling, 
 and the hostess examined and searched 
 the eyes of her husband and guests. 
 Have they all got inspired or mad, 
 thought she ; but her thought produced 
 no change, for the men still looked and 
 whispered, and shook their heads, and 
 nodded, and winked, and left their tea 
 standing, till she began to think of the 
 state of the moon. 
 
 " How delighted I am," ejaculated Miss 
 M'Falzen ; " for I never saw such an 
 effect produced by the famous allegory in 
 any family into which I ever introduced 
 it. You see the effect of agitation in 
 devout matters, Mrs. Bairnsfather." 
 
 " You know not half the effect it has 
 produced on us, ma'arq," said Mr. Hor- 
 ner. " It has electrified us — so much so 
 indeed, that we cannot remain longer to 
 enjoy your excellent society. You will, 
 therefore, ladies, excuse us if we swallow 
 our tea cleverly, and go to promulgate in 
 the proper quarters the information af- 
 forded us by this wonderful production." 
 
 " The sooner we are away the batter," 
 added Mr. Wrench, drinking off his cup, 
 " We must call a private meeting, and lay 
 it secretly before them." 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 73 
 
 " Certainly," added Mr. Bairnsfather ; 
 " and you, Miss M'Falzen, authorize us 
 to tell the peregrinations of the book, into 
 whose hands it has been, and how it came 
 here." 
 
 " Bless you, sir," cried the devout 
 spinster — while Mrs. Bairnsfather kept 
 staring at her husband and guests, unable 
 to solve the strange mystery — '' You do 
 not know a tithe of the good that this little 
 book has achieved. It has been in half 
 the houses in the Cowgate and Canongate. 
 It is relished by the poor, and sought after 
 by the rich ; it mends the heart, improves 
 the understanding, and binds up the 
 wounds of those that are struck by the 
 hands of the archers. Oh ! I agitate in 
 the good cause mightily with it, and 
 others of the same class ; and may all 
 success attend your eiforts, also, in so 
 excellent a cause. Call meetings by all 
 means, read, expound, examine, exhort, 
 entreat, and, hark ye, take Mr. Samuel 
 Thriven with you, for his heart is in the 
 cause of the improvement of his fellow- 
 creatures, and he knows the value of the 
 allegory of the devout tinker of Elstow." 
 
 " We cannot do without Mr. Thriven," 
 replied Mr. Bairnsfather with a smile ; 
 and while Mrs. Bairnsfather was callino; 
 out to them to take another cup, and ex- 
 plain to her the meaning of their conduct, 
 the creditors rose altogether, and, taking 
 their hats and Bunyan, were on the point 
 of leaving the room in great haste and 
 manifest excitement, when the door open- 
 ed, and the soft voice of Widow Mercer 
 saluted them. 
 
 " Have you heard ihe news .?" said she. 
 
 " Does it concern Mr. Thriven ?" re- 
 plied more than one. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure it does !" rejoined she. 
 '• We will all now get full payment of our 
 debts ; what think ye of that, sirs ?" 
 
 " Hush, hush !" said Mr. Bairnsfather, 
 in the ear of the widow. " Say nothino" 
 of ' The Pilgi'im's Progress.' You know 
 Miss M'Falzen is a friend of Mr. Thri- 
 ven's." 
 
 " ' The Pilgrim's Progress !' " ejaculat- 
 ed the widow. 
 
 re- 
 
 agram 
 
 " Alas ! he is, of a verity, mad !* 
 joined Mrs. Bairnsfather. 
 
 " ' The Pilgrim's Progress,' " 
 cried Mrs. Mercer. 
 
 " Tush, we knew all about it!" whis- 
 pered Mr. Wrench. " You also have 
 seen the book." 
 
 '' Yes," replied the widow, ^' I have, as 
 who hasn't.? but Lord bless me !" — and 
 she whispered in his ear — '' what, in the 
 name of wonder, has ^ The PiWim's Pro- 
 gross got to do with Mr. Thriven having 
 got ten thousand pounds left him hj Mrs. 
 Grizel M'Whirtcr .?" 
 
 The whisper was communicated to the 
 two other creditors by Mr. Wrench. 
 The three merchants, stimulated at the 
 same moment by the same impulse of joy, 
 laid hold of the good widow, and whirled 
 her like a top round the room, snappino- 
 their fingers the" while, and exhibiting 
 other perfectly innocent demonstrations 
 of gladness. 
 
 " The most extraordinary method of 
 proselytizing," said the spinster, " that I, 
 who have carried on the trade of mending 
 the species for many years, have ever yet 
 seen." 
 
 "It is all beyond my poor wits toge- 
 ther," added the wife. 
 
 And beyond her poor wits the creditors 
 allowed it to remain, for they immediately 
 went forth upon their intended mission. 
 In some hours afterwards, accordingly, 
 there was a secret meeting in '' The White 
 Horse," not less dangerous to Mr. Sa- 
 muel Thriven than was that held in the 
 Trojan one to old Troy. 
 
 CHAP. VI. THE PAYMENT. 
 
 Now all this time, while Mr. Thriven 's 
 creditors were in " The White Horse," 
 he himself was in heaven ; for Sharp and 
 he having found all right at Cockenzie, 
 returned and sat down to finish the claret 
 which had been forestalled by the attor- 
 
n 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 nej before setting out. They resolved 
 upon consigning Mrs. Grizel M'Whirter 
 to the cold earth -a day sooner than cus- 
 tom might have warranted ; and the rea- 
 son for this especial care was simply that 
 Mr. Samuel wished, with all the ardor 
 inspired by the Bourdeaux waters, to 
 make a grand and glorious .display of his 
 honesty, by calling all his creditors toge- 
 ther, and paying them principal and in- 
 terest — twenty shillings in the pound. 
 They even, at this early period, set about 
 making a draft of the circular letter, 
 which was to announce the thrilling intel- 
 ligence. 
 
 " Heavens ! what a commotion this will 
 produce among the trade !" said Samuel, 
 as he threw himself back in his chair, and 
 fixed his enchanted eye on Sharp's copy. 
 " It will electrify them ; and, sir, the 
 editors of the newspapers are bound as pa- 
 trons of public virtue, to set it forth as an 
 example to others to induce them to do 
 the same in time coming. And now, 
 since we have discussed so much business 
 and claret, we will retire to our beds ; I to 
 enjoy the satisfaction of having resolved on 
 a noble action, and you the hope of mak- 
 ing a few six-and-eightpences by the death 
 of Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie." 
 
 " A few .'" cried Sharp, in an attor- 
 ney's heroics. " You will see when you 
 count them, I am not less honest or gene- 
 rous than yourself." 
 
 The friends thereupon separated, to en- 
 joy in their beds the two pleasures inci- 
 dent to their peculiar situations. 
 
 At the end of the period — less by one 
 day, than the customary time of corpses 
 being allowed to remain on the face of 
 the earth— Mrs. Grizel M'Whirter was 
 buried ; and as her will containeda spe- 
 cific assignation to the greater part of 
 her money, the same was, in a day or 
 two afterwards, got hold of by Mr. Thri- 
 ven, and out went the round of circulars 
 to the creditors, announcing that on the 
 following Thursday, Mr. Thriven would 
 be seated in his house, ready to pay all 
 
 his creditors their debts, and requesting 
 them to attend and bring with them their 
 receipts. Among these circulars was one 
 to Miss Angelina M'Falzen — the very 
 woman he had promised, before he suc- 
 ceeded to Miss Grizel M'Whirter's for- 
 tune, to make a wife of ; a pretty plain 
 proof that now, when he had become rich, 
 he intended to shake off the devout spin- 
 ster who had attempted to reform him by 
 lending him of the allegory of Tinker of 
 Elstow. The eventful day at length ar- 
 rived, when Mr. Thriven was to enjoy the 
 great triumph he had panted for — viz., to 
 pay his creditors in full every Girthing with 
 their own money ; and, at the hour ap- 
 pointed, a considerable number arrived at 
 his house, among whom not a few knew, 
 as well as they did the contents of their 
 own Bibles, the nefarious device of the 
 haberdasher. When the creditors were 
 seated — 
 
 "It ill becomes a man," said Mr. Thri- 
 ven, affecting a comely modesty — " It iU 
 becomes one who resolves merely to do an 
 act of ordinary justice, to take credit to 
 himself for the possession of uncommon 
 honesty. Therefore, I say, away with all 
 egotistical assumption of principles, which 
 ought to belong to a man, merely (as we 
 say in trade) as part and parcel of hu- 
 manity ; for, were it a miracle to be honest, 
 why should we not tolerate dishonesty, 
 which yet is, by the voice of all good men, 
 condemned and put down. The debts due 
 to you I incurred, why then should 1 not 
 pay them ? It makes not a nail of differ- 
 ence that I lost three-fourths of the 
 amount thereof by fire ; because, what had 
 you to do with the fire ? You were not 
 the incendiaries. No ; the fault lay with 
 me ; I should have insured my stock, in 
 gratitude for the credit with which you 
 honored me. It is for these reasons that I 
 now disdain to take any credit to myself 
 for coming thus cleverly forward to do you 
 an act of justice, which the will of heaven 
 has put in my power, by the demise of 
 that lamented woman, Mrs. Grizel jNI'- 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 7& 
 
 Whirter, and which you could by law 
 have forced mo to do, though, probably, 
 not so soon as I now propose to do it of 
 my own free will and accord." 
 
 Mr. Thriven paused for a burst of ap- 
 plause ; and Mr. Bairnsfather, with a 
 smile on his face, stood up. 
 
 " It is all very well," said he, glancing 
 to his friends, " for Mr. Thriven to pre- 
 tend that no merit attaches to one who 
 acts in the noble and generous way he has 
 resolved to follow on this occasion. Every 
 honest act deserves applause, were it for 
 nothing else in the world than to keep up 
 the credit of honesty. No doubt we 
 might have compelled Mr. Thriven to pay 
 us out of the money to which he has suc- 
 ceeded, and to this exteiit we may admit 
 his plea of no merit but the readiness, if 
 not precipitancy he has exhibited on the 
 measure is not only in itself worthy of 
 high commendation ; but, by a reflex ef- 
 fect, it satisfies us all, of that of which 
 we probably were not very sceptical, that 
 his failure was an honest one, and that he 
 is not. now making a display of paying us 
 out of any other money than his own." 
 
 '' Shall we not accord to these senti- 
 ments of our brother creditor .?" said Mr. 
 Wrench, rising with great seriousness. 
 " How seldom is it, in the ordinary affairs 
 of life, that we find the true Mr. Great- 
 heart of ' The Pilgrim's Progress ;' but 
 when we do find him, shall we not say to 
 him, let him have his reward — and what 
 shall that reward be ? Empty praise ? 
 No I Mr. Thriven needs not that, be- 
 cause he has the voice of conscience 
 sounding within him — far more musical, I 
 deem, to the ear of honesty than the hol- 
 low notes of external applause. A piece 
 of plate ? very good for praise-devouring 
 politicians to place on the table when the 
 clique is carousing and settling the afiairs 
 of the State ; but altogether unsuitable for 
 the gratification of meek, self-denied, re- 
 tiring honesty. A book of morals ; what 
 say ye to that, friends .^" I throw it out 
 merely as a hint." 
 
 " And I second the suggestion," said 
 Mr. Horner, " with the amendment, that 
 there shall be an inscription on a blank leafy 
 setting forth, in detail, the merits of the 
 individual, and where could we find a bet- 
 ter than the allegory of the progress of the 
 pilgrim, written by the tinker of Elstow .?" 
 
 A round of applause, fully suitable to 
 the appetite of Mr. Samuel, followed Mr. 
 Horner's amendment. The process of 
 payment commenced, and was completed 
 to the satisfaction of all parties ; and when 
 the creditors went away, Mr. Thriven sat 
 down to consider the position in which he 
 stood. H[e had got applause, but he did 
 not well understand it. Above all, he 
 could not comprehend the allusion to the 
 book written by John Bunyan. " Well," 
 he said, as he took up the Mercury ^ " it 
 is beyond my comprehension ; and, after 
 all, the good people may only mean to 
 present me with some suitable gift in con- 
 sideration of the act of justice I have this 
 day done them. Let me see if there be 
 any news ;" and he fell back in his chair 
 in that delightful langueur d?esprit to which 
 a newspaper of all things is the most ac- 
 ceptable. '•'■ Why," he continued, as he 
 still searched for some racy bit, " did not 
 Sharp undertake to get a notice inserted, 
 by way of an editor's advertisement, of 
 three lines, to immortalize me, and pave 
 my way to the hand of Miss Clarinda 
 Pott .^" And he wrung the muscles of his 
 face as if they had been like a dishclout 
 filled with the humor of his bile. At 
 length his eye stood in his head, his mouth 
 opened, and he became what artists would 
 call " a living picture." The part of the | 
 paper which produced this strange eff"ect, 
 consisted of merely a few lines to this im- 
 port: — '■'■ New light. — The matter which 
 the fire in Street failed to illu- 
 mine has, we understand, been illustrated 
 by no less an individual than John Bun- 
 yan, tinker at Elstow. Everything may 
 be reduced to an allegory ; the world itself 
 is an allegory ; and this scrap of ours is 
 nothing but an allegoi-y." 
 
76 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Samuel laid down the paper. " Wliat 
 can this mean ?" said he. " If this be not 
 an allegory, I know not what is." 
 
 " Ah, sir, you are a man this day to be 
 envied," said Miss M'Falzen, who now 
 entered. " You have proved yourself to 
 be an honest man. I was sure of it ; and 
 you know, Samuel, when all deserted you, 
 I stuck fast by you, and even gave the — 
 the — excuse me, sir — the consent you 
 asked of me, while you had no prospect 
 before you in this bad world other than 
 beggary." 
 
 " What consent, ma'am .?" replied Mr. 
 Thriven, with a face that displayed no 
 more curiosity than it did love. 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. Thriven, do you for- 
 get } — Is it possible that you can have for- 
 gotten so interesting an occasion .^" 
 
 " I believe, by the by, ma'am, you have 
 called for your debt," said Mr. Thriven. 
 
 "Debt!" ejaculated the devout spin- 
 ster. " Why should there be any debt 
 between two people situated as we are. 
 Why should not all claims be extinguished 
 by the mixture of what Mr. Sharp calls 
 the goods in communion. If 1 take this 
 money from you to-day, won't I be giving 
 it back after the ceremony. True, my 
 small fortune is now nothing to yours ; 
 yet I will remember with pleasure, and 
 you will never surely forget, that all I had 
 was at your service when you had lost all 
 you had in the world ; so, you see, my 
 dear Samuel, if you have this day proved 
 yourself to have a noble sphit, I am not 
 behind you.'' 
 
 " What is the exact amount of your 
 claim. Miss M'Falzen P"* said Mr. Thri- 
 ven, with a determination to distance sen- 
 timent. 
 
 " And would you really pay it, cruel, 
 cruel man ?" said she, somewhat alarmed. 
 
 " C6rtainly, ma'am," replied he drily. 
 
 " Are you serious .^" said she again, 
 looking him full and searchingly in the 
 face. 
 
 " Yes," answered he more drily than 
 ever. 
 
 " Can it be possible that your sentiments 
 towards me have undergone a change, Mr. 
 Thriven V rejoined she. " Ah ! I for- 
 got. You are now a man of ten thousand 
 pounds, and I have only one. The film 
 is falling off my eyes. O deluded Ange- 
 lina !" 
 
 " Then you will see the better to count 
 the money I am to pay you," said he, at- 
 tempting to laugh. " Fifty pounds, 
 ma'am. Here it is, I will thank you for 
 Mrs. Mercer's bill." 
 
 " Well, sir, since it has come to this, I 
 will none of the money. Alas ! this is 
 the effects of John Bunyan's famous book. 
 Good-day — good-day, Mr. Samuel ;" and 
 the spinster, covering her face with her 
 handkerchief, rushed out of the room. 
 
 CHAP. V!I. 
 
 -THE DENOUEMENT. 
 
 " Thus have I got quit of the spinster," 
 said Mr. Thriven, " and thus have I, too, 
 got quit of my creditors. But how comes 
 this } She also talks of Bunyan ; every 
 body talks of Bunyan. But this paper } 
 No, spite — spite — let them present me 
 with an inscription on a blank leaf. It 
 will do as well as a piece of plate. I will 
 get the words of praise inserted in another 
 newspaper, and then begin to act the gen- 
 tleman in earnest on my ten thousand. I 
 shall instantly engage a buggy with a 
 bright bay ; and a man-servant with a 
 stripe of silver lace round his hat, shall 
 sit on my sinister side. Let them stare 
 and point at me. They can only say there 
 rides an honest man who failed, and paid 
 his creditors twenty shillings a pound. 
 Ho! here comes Sharp." 
 
 " What is the meaning of this .'" said 
 he, holding out the paper. " Some 
 wretched joke of an editor who would 
 take from me the honor intended for me 
 by my creditors. I see by your face that 
 you smell an action of damages." 
 
 " Joke !" echoed Sharp. " That copy 
 of Bunyan which Miss M'Falzen was 
 lending to Mrs. Bairnsfather that day 
 
MR. SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN. 
 
 77 
 
 when we went to Cockenzie, is now in the 
 hands of the Procurator Fiscal." 
 
 " Oh, the devout maiden lends it to 
 everybody," replied Samuel. She will be 
 to get the fiscal to reclaim sinners by it, 
 rather than to punish them by the arm of 
 the law." 
 
 "Is it possible, Mr. Thriven, that you 
 can thus make light of an affair that in- 
 volves banishment r" said Sharp. " Did 
 you really write on a blank leaf of that 
 book the details of the profit you were to 
 make of the burning .?" 
 
 Samuel jumped at least three feet from 
 the floor ; and when he came down again, 
 he muttered strange things, and did strange 
 things, which no pen could describe, be- 
 cause they were unique, had no appropri- 
 ate symbols in language, had never been 
 muttered or done before since the begin- 
 ning of the world, and, probably, will 
 never be again. It might, however, have 
 been gathered from his ravings, that he 
 had some recollection of having scribbled 
 something about his failure, but that he 
 thought it was in the blank leaf of a 
 pocket-book, the which book he grasped 
 and examined, but all was a dead blank. 
 He then threw himself on a chair, and 
 twisted himself into all possible shapes, 
 cursing Miss Angelina M'Falzen, himself, 
 his creditors, every one who had the 
 smallest share in this tremendous revolu- 
 tion from wealth, hopes of a high match, 
 buggy, servant with silver lace, even to 
 
 disgrace, confiscation, and banishment. 
 
 " You are renowned for the quickness, 
 loopiness, subtleness, of thy profession. 
 Can you not assist me, Sharp i A man's 
 scrawls are not evidence of themselves." 
 
 " But with the testimony of Clossmuns, 
 who has returned from Liverpool, they will 
 be conclusive," replied the attorney, whose 
 game now lay in Mr. Samuel's misfor- 
 tunes. " Such evidence never went be- 
 fore a jury since the time of the regiam 
 majestatem.''^ 
 
 " What then is to be done .^" inquired 
 Samuel. 
 
 " Fly ! fly ! and leave me a power of 
 attorney to collect your moneys. There 
 is two thousand of Grizel M'Whirter's 
 fortune still to uplift — ^your stock in trade 
 is to be disposed of — I will manage it beau- 
 tifully for you, and in spite of an outlaw- 
 ry, get the proceeds sent to you whereso- 
 ever you go." 
 
 " Dreadful relief!" ejaculated the other, 
 " to fly one's country, and leave one's af- 
 fairs in the hands of an attorney." 
 
 " Better than banishment,'' replied 
 Sharp, grinding his teeth, as if sharp set 
 for the quarry that lay before him. 
 " What do you resolve on ? shall I write 
 out the power of attorney, or will you 
 wait till the officers are on you .^" mut- 
 tering to himself in conclusion — " a few 
 six-and-eightpences — i'faith, I have him 
 now !" 
 
 " Then there is no alternative .?" re- 
 joined Samuel. 
 
 " None !" replied Sharp. " I have it 
 on good authority that the warrant against 
 you was in the act of being written out, 
 when I hurried here, as you find, to save 
 you. Shall I proceed to prepare the 
 commission .?" 
 
 " Yes — yes ! as quick as an ellwand 
 that leaps three inches short of the 
 yard." 
 
 And while he continued in this extremi- 
 ty of his despair, Sharp set about writing 
 at the factory — short and general — ^giving 
 all powers of uplifting money, and reserv- 
 ing none. It was signed. In a few min- 
 utes more Mr. Thriven was in a post- 
 chaise, driving on to a sea-port in Eng- 
 land. The news of the flight of the 
 honest merchant, with all the circumstan- 
 ces, soon reached the ear of the devout 
 spinster, even as she was weeping over the 
 result of the interview she had had with 
 her cruel lover. She wiped her eyes and 
 repressed her sobs, and congratulated her- 
 self on the consequences of her devout 
 labors. Mr. Thriven was not heard of 
 again ; neither was his cash. 
 
78 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE D OUBLE-BEDDED RO OM. 
 
 " Say you love 
 His person — be not asham'd oft ; he's a man 
 For whose embraces, though Endymion 
 Lay sleeping by, Cynthia would leave her orb 
 And exchange kisses with him." 
 
 Massingee, 
 
 " The morn was fair, the sky was clear," 
 when Mr. Andrew Micklewhame set his 
 foot aboard one of the " Stirling, Alloa, 
 and Kincardine Steam Company's" boats, 
 at the Chain Pier, Newhaven, for the pur- 
 pose of proceeding to the first-named 
 place, on a visit to his old friend, David 
 Kerr, who had been, for upwards of twenty 
 years, a respectable ironmonger in that 
 romantic town. On reaching Alloa, how- 
 ever, where, as every one knows, the 
 steamers pause for such length of time as 
 enables them to take in a supply of coals, 
 and the tide to run up, it began to rain, 
 in the manner best expressed by the house- 
 hold phrase, " auld wives and pipe stap- 
 ples." Notwithstanding this, Andrew 
 being determined to make the most of his 
 time — for a week was the utmost limit of 
 his leave of absence from the Edinburgh 
 cloth establishment in which he was in the 
 habit of wearing away his days and his 
 coat sleeves — ascended from the cabin 
 where he had been luxuriating over the 
 only volume — the first of '' Wilson's Tales 
 of the Borders" — of which its library 
 could boast ; and unfurling his umbrella, 
 walked ashore in the fond hope of seeing 
 or hearing something worth the seeing or 
 hearing. And Andrew was not disap- 
 pointed ; for, to his unspeakable delight, 
 he descried against the gable -end of a 
 white house, a play-bill, on which " Ve- 
 nice Preserved," appeared in letters of 
 half-au-inch deep ; the part of Pierre, by 
 Mr. Ferdinand Gustavus Trash, and Jaf- 
 fier, by Mr. Henry Watkins. The after- 
 piece, " Rob Roy." Being extremely 
 
 partial to theatrical amusements, of what- 
 ever description, and, moreover, being a 
 contributor to a dramatic review, publish- 
 ed weekly in the Scottish metropolis, it 
 occurred to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame 
 that here he might, in all probability, find 
 materials sufficient on which to establish ' 
 a funny critique, that would print to the 
 extent of at least six of the twelve pages 
 of the aforesaid dramatic review, and 3'ield 
 him good pay. Such an opportunity was 
 not to be lost. He, therefore, resolved on 
 remaining at Alloa that night to witness 
 the performances, and proceeding to Stir- 
 ling next morning by the earliest convey- 
 ance. 
 
 Having arranged this to his own con- 
 tent, he stalked majestically into an inn — 
 without stopping to notice the sign which 
 projected angularly over the door, bearing 
 the representation of a ship in full sail, 
 among emerald waves, with moon-rakers 
 and sky-scrapers ingeniously mixed up 
 with the indigo clouds above — and stoutly 
 called for a pint of porter and a biscuit, 
 to take the edge off his appetite. This 
 inn rejoiced not in a landlord ; he that teas 
 the landlord had, some twelve years be- 
 fore, taken himself off to '^ that undisco- 
 vered country from whose bourne no tra- 
 veller returns," and his widow had not 
 been lucky enough to meet with another 
 ready and willing to let himself become 
 entangled with her in the meshes of matri- 
 mony. The waiters who had, in her hus- 
 band's time, been wont to serve the cus- 
 tomers, had either died out, or gone to 
 other and better situations, and left her 
 
THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. 
 
 19 
 
 with one solitary maid of all work — tlie 
 same wlio had officiated as barmaid to the 
 inn for fifteen years. 
 
 This maid of all work— Kirsty by name 
 — was a tall, hard-featured woman, of — 
 by her own acknowledgment — two-and- 
 forty ; not very tidy in her adornment, 
 nor very bewitching in her manner. She 
 it was who brought Mr. Andrew Mickle- 
 whame the pint of porter and the biscuit. 
 
 " I suppose, my dear !" said Andrew — 
 (He had been a gay deceiver in his youth, 
 and, ever since that period, the phrase, 
 *' my dear!" had stuck to him, and al- 
 ways when speaking to a female did he 
 use it) — " I suppose, my dear," continu- 
 ed he, '^ I can have tea, and a beef-steak, 
 or something of that kind, to it, in" — 
 (here he stopped, and looked at his watch, 
 from which he ascertained that it was then 
 half-past four o'clock)^" in an hour and 
 a half; and, as I purpose staying here to- 
 night, I should like a bed. Will you ar- 
 range this for me .''" 
 
 " Ye can easily get yer tea, sir," said 
 the woman of forty-two, looking pleased 
 at being addressed " my dear ;" but, as 
 for the bed, unless ye like to sleep in a 
 dooble-bedded room, we canna gie ye ac- 
 commodation. The lad that sleeps in ane 
 o' the beds, is a dacent sort o' a callant. 
 We dinna ken much aboot him though ; 
 for he only comes here at nicht for his 
 bed ; and in the mornings, after his break- 
 fast, awa' he gangs, and we never sees his 
 face till nicht again ; except upon the 
 Sundays, when he aye has a pairty o' braw 
 loddics an' gentlemen to dinner wi' him. 
 He has leevt that way for a fortnicht or 
 three weeks ; an' my mistress hasna been 
 the woman to ask him for a penny. Fegs ! 
 I'm thinkin' she has taen a notion o' the 
 callant. What he is or what he dia we 
 dinna ken, an' naebody can tell us." 
 
 '^ IMysterious being !" inwardly ejacu- 
 lated (as the novelists' phrase goes) Mr. 
 Micklewhame ; then turning to Knsty, 
 with an inquiring look, he said — " Is he 
 
 genteel in appearance } of good address :* 
 of pleasing manner .'' Is he" 
 
 " Ou, ay!" was the reply; "he's a' 
 that — I never seed a genteeler young man 
 in a' my days ; and sae handsome too ; sic 
 black whiskers, an' sae broad aboot the 
 shuthers. My certie, he's a stalworth 
 chiel. An', as for his address, heth, man, 
 he often gies me a kiss in the mornings as 
 he gangs oot, and promises me anither 
 whan he comes back again. Ye needna 
 be the least feared to sleep in the same 
 room wi' him." 
 
 "Feared!" muttered Micklewhame. 
 " Afraid of a man with black whiskers 
 and broad shoulders ! I flatter myself I 
 never was afraid in my hfe." So saying, 
 he elevated himself on his pins to the same 
 degree as he rose at that moment in his 
 own estimation. Then turning to the 
 table whereon he had deposited his hat, 
 he seized it up, and, with a dexterous 
 jerk, stuck it on his head, at the same 
 time exclaiming — " Ye may prepare the 
 bed for me — I'll sleep in the room with 
 this mysterious man ; and, while the tea 
 is getting ready, I'll just take a short 
 stroll." 
 
 With these words he left the inn. 
 
 Mr. Andrew Micklewhame was a mid- 
 dle-aged man, with a rotundity of corpus, 
 and a bachelor to boot. In his youthful 
 days his love for the fair sex had partaken 
 more of a general than a particular charac- 
 ter ; and now that he had arrived at the 
 meridian of life, his taste had grown too 
 particular for him to choose a partner for 
 the remainder of his days from among 
 those unmarried ladies whom he ranked 
 among his acquaintances. " Girls," he 
 would say, " are not now half so pretty, nor 
 half so domestic, as they were in my young 
 days." Then he would enter into a long 
 tirade against the march of intellect, usu- 
 ally ending with a few observations upon 
 pianoforte playing, and cooking a beef- 
 steak, the latter accomplishment being in 
 ; his opinion — as it is in that of every well- 
 
80 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 thinking person — the greater accomplish- 
 ment of the two. One lady was too young ; 
 another was too old ; a third was too tall ; 
 a fourth was too small; a fifth had no 
 money ; a sixth had money, but was down- 
 right ugly ; a seventh was ill-tempered : 
 in short, with every one on whom his ma- 
 trimonial ideas had condescended to set- 
 tle, he had some fault to find. There is 
 no pleasing one who is predetermined not 
 to be pleased. 
 
 Once, indeed, at a party to which he 
 had been accidentally invited, he had felt a 
 kind of a sort of a nervous tremulousness 
 come over him on being set down at the 
 supper table beside a lady, who, he dis- 
 covered, was a widow ; not from her garb, 
 however ; for widows — that is, young 
 widows free of encumbrance — usually 
 dress themselves in a much gayer manner 
 than they were wont to do when " nice 
 young maidens." He had made himself 
 as agreeable as it was in his power to do, 
 drinking wine with her at least half-a- 
 dozen times, and otherwise doing, as he 
 supposed, "the polite." Nay, he even 
 went so far as to volunteer his services in 
 seeing her home ; and on the way over 
 (she was from the country, and, pro tem- 
 porSj resided with a friend in Bruntisfield 
 Place, fronting the Links), he had the 
 boldness to pop the question. He was 
 accepted, and invited to breakfast with the 
 lady the following morning. The morn- 
 ing came ; but Andrew did not go — the 
 fumes of the wine having subsided, and 
 " Richard being himself again." He had 
 taken a second thought on tke subject, 
 and determined on remaining a bachelor ; 
 by which arrangement the Widow Brown 
 was, like Lord Ullin for his daughter, 
 " left lamenting." Who her husband had 
 been .'' whether she had money ? what was 
 her situation in life ? were what Andrew 
 tried long and earnestly to discover, but 
 in vain — the Widow Brown seemed wrap- 
 ped in mystery ; and, from that hour, 
 when he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, 
 under a lamp-post, at two o'clock in the 
 
 morning, in Bruntisfield Place, he had 
 neither seen nor heard of her. Years — 
 six in number — had elapsed since then, 
 and Andrew had not ventured to accept 
 another invitation to an evening party ; 
 but, as soon as his business for the day 
 was over, he returned to his solitary lodg- 
 ing in Richmond Street ; and, for the re- 
 mainder of the evening, followed the ex- 
 ample of the gentlemen of England, and 
 " lived at home at ease," never stirring 
 out, except to pay an occasional visit to 
 the theatre. 
 
 The localities of Alloa were quite un- 
 known to Andrew, for the best reason in 
 the world — he had never been in it before ; 
 but, by dint of attending to the usual ex- 
 pedient resorted to on like occasions — 
 that of following his nose — in the space of 
 a few minutes he discovered that his feet, 
 or fate, had led him into a dockyard, 
 where a vessel ■vt^as just upon the point of 
 being wedded to the ocean. Some women 
 and men — the former, as usual, predomi- 
 nant — were seated on logs beneath a shed ; 
 others, the more impatient, seemingly, 
 were walking about with umbrellas and 
 parasols above their heads — young men 
 with young misses — old men and babes. 
 Children in their first childhood, of vari- 
 ous shapes and sizes, chiefly barefooted, 
 were scampering among the wet sawdust, 
 round about the logs of wood, in the shed 
 and out of it, quite absorbed in the spirit- 
 stirring game of " tig" — ever and anon 
 yelping out each other's names, and other- 
 wise expressing their joy at not being 
 " it.'* Among their seniors there was a 
 great deal of gabble to very little purpose, 
 with a preponderate share of bustle and 
 agitation. 
 
 '* Carpenters were thumping away at 
 the blocks on which the vessel rested, 
 making more noise than progress. At 
 length the blocks were fairly driven out, 
 and away boomed the vessel into the 
 Forth, amid the cheers of the assembled 
 spectators. The general interest then 
 subsided ; and, in a few minutes there- 
 
THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. 
 
 81 
 
 comedians 
 
 and lield tlieir orgies oq 
 
 after, witk the exception of the carpen- 
 ters and some stray children, the dock- 
 yard presented the picture of emptiness. 
 The dill had ended ; and the multitude, 
 reversing the condition of Rob Roy, had 
 left desolation where they had found 
 plenty. 
 
 Tea over, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame, 
 having first seen to his accommodation for 
 I ! the night, and secure'd a place in the Stir- 
 I j ling omnibus, which was advertised to start 
 
 I j the next morning precisely at nine, wend- 
 j ed his way quietly to the theatre. It was 
 ij I in the Assembly Room- — a rumbling old 
 j ! mansion, on the windows of which " Time's 
 
 I I effacing fingers" had taken pains to leave 
 \ I their marks so efiectually, that sundry de- 
 1 1 tachments of old soot-bedizened " clouts" 
 
 filled up those interstices where glass had 
 once been. " The nonpareil company of 
 entertained their audiences 
 the second fioor 
 — the first being occupied as an academy, 
 where " young gentlemen are taken in 
 and done for." The scenes in which the 
 establishment rejoiced, were five in num- 
 ber. Luckily, " Venice Preserved " did 
 aot require so many ; but in " Rob Roy," 
 the manager was compelled to make them 
 perform double duty ; and, consequently, 
 the same scene was thrust on for the in- 
 side of a village inn apartment in Bailie 
 JNicol Jarvie's, and the interior of Jean 
 M' Alpine's change-house. The audience 
 department was most gorgeous ; there 
 were boxes, pit, and gallery ; or, in other 
 words, front, middle, and back seats — the 
 term " boxes" being applied to the front 
 form, to which there was a back attached, 
 most aristocratically garnished with green 
 cloth, with bmss nails in relief. At the 
 farther end of this form " an efl&cient ; 
 orchestra" was placed. It consisted of a I 
 boy to play the panpipes and the triangles | 
 at one and the same moment, a lad to ' 
 thump away at the ba?;s drum, and a blind | 
 man to perform on the clarionets— the last ■ 
 being dignified in the bills by the title of , 
 *' leader of the orchestra, and condaictor of ' 
 
 VOL. II. 6 
 
 music." The whole under the immediate 
 superintendence of Mr. Ferdinand Gus- 
 tavus Trash, 
 
 After an immensity of preliminary puffs 
 into the clarionet, occasional rattles on the 
 drum, and consultations among them- 
 selves as to the air to be played, the mu- 
 sicians struck up the spirit-stirring " All 
 Round my Hat ;" which, though achieved 
 in a beautiful disregard of time and con- 
 cord, was received with great — ay, with 
 very great applause, by the momentarily 
 increasing audience, some of wliom mis- 
 took it for " God Save the King," and, 
 in an extreme fit of loj'^alty, bawled out — 
 " Off hats ! stand up !" with which com- 
 mand many did not hesitate to comply. 
 
 There was a pause, interrupted at length 
 by the loudly expressed wish of the gods 
 that the curtain should draw up. Up it 
 went accordingly, and " Venice Preserv- 
 ed" commenced with some show of en- 
 thusiasm. Belvidera was personated by 
 an interesting female of five-and-thirty, 
 who, after parting in tears from Jaffier, a 
 youth of eighteen, as the means of ac- 
 quainting the audience with her extra- 
 ordinary vocal abilities, consoled herself 
 and them with that very appropriate ditty 
 — " Within a Mile of Edinburgh Town," 
 accompanied by the orchestra. The Doge 
 of Venice, not to be outdone as it were, 
 left his throne after the terrific disclosures 
 of Jaffier, and, in honest exultation at the 
 discovery of the horrid plot, solaced the 
 mysterious Council of Ten with — " I was 
 the boy for bewitching them." The bass 
 drum was particularly distinguished in the 
 accompaniment, 
 
 in a critique of the performances which 
 Mr. Micklewhame wrote, he says — " It 
 would have greatly added to the delight 
 of those conversant with the pure English 
 idiom, had many of the actors paid a visit, 
 for a short time, to the Jirst floor of the 
 Assembly Room, ere ventm-ing to appear 
 on the second." 
 
 The meagreness of the company compelled 
 several of the principal performers to play 
 
82 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 inferior parts in addition to those against 
 which their names appeared in the bill. 
 For instance, in " Rob Roy," the same 
 person who performed Rashleigh had to 
 ^' go on" in the capacity of a peasant, and 
 sing a bass solo in the opening glee. Owen 
 and Major Galbraith were dojie by the 
 same individual. Mattie sang in the 
 opening glee, and danced the Highland 
 Fling and the Pass of Lochard, with Dou- 
 gal and Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Some of the 
 audience were scandalized at the appear- 
 ance of Mattie on this occasion, and be- 
 gan to entertain great doubts of thef 
 morality of the Bailie, when they saw his 
 handmaid in his company so far from the 
 Trongate. 
 
 Seated on the front form, with green 
 cloth back studded with brass nails, and 
 immediately behind a row of sixpenny 
 dipped candles, tastefully arranged in or- 
 der among an equivalent number of holes 
 in a stick placed in front of the drop-scene, 
 to divide the audience from the actors, 
 Andrew Micklewhame gazed on all this 
 with the stoical indifference of one who is 
 used to such things : in short, he gazed on 
 it with the eye of an experienced critic — 
 the best of all possible ways to mar one's 
 enjoyment of a play. Occasionally, how- 
 ever, he felt inclined to indulge in a hearty 
 laugh ; but the dignity of the critic came 
 to his aid, and he restrained it by turning 
 away his face from the stage and casting 
 his scrutinizing glance around the inhabi- 
 tants of the seats in the rear, or listened 
 to the remarks of those in the pit. It was 
 during the latter part of the performance 
 of the first act, and the interval between 
 it and the second, that he, in this man- 
 ner, overheard the fragments of a con- 
 versation carried on, sotto voce^ in the 
 seat immediately behind him. He had 
 the curiosity to steal a glance at the 
 speakers. They were a young woman, 
 with fine dark eyes, and a young man, of 
 apparently five-and- twenty years of age, 
 with cheeks ret^olent of rouge, enveloped 
 in a faded Petersham greatcoat, whom An- 
 
 drew immediately set down as belonging 
 to the company of comedians. He could 
 hear the young woman with the dark eyes 
 upbraiding the young man with the color- 
 ed cheeks for deserting her ; then the 
 young man said he had intended to write 
 to her soon, with some money, so she 
 ought not to have followed him. 
 
 " I am pretty well situated in lodgings 
 here at present," continued the younnr 
 man ; " but I cannot venture to take you 
 there to-night, for the fact of my being a 
 married man would not, were it known, 
 raise me in the estimation of the landlady. 
 But I will procure other lodgings for you 
 after the play is over ; and if you do not 
 hear from me in the morning, at farthest 
 by ten, you may call for me at the inn 
 where 1 am staying." He ended by ob- 
 serving that he was wanted in the next 
 act to go on as a Highlander ; and, ac- 
 cordingly, he left her, and crept in behind 
 the curtain. 
 
 There was nothing very extraordinary 
 in all this ; yet, though Andrew knew that 
 such occurrences happened daily, he could 
 not help thinking of what he had just over- 
 heard, and feeling interested in the dam- 
 sel of the sparkling eyes. He did not 
 dare, however, to take another peep at 
 her, as he thought it would be too marked ; 
 and when he rose, at the termination of 
 the performances, to go away, the seat be- 
 hind him was quite vacant ; nor could he 
 discern, among the dense mass of human 
 beings that obstructed the door-way, the 
 slightest vestige of her, or the youth in the 
 shabby greatcoat, who had acknowledged 
 himself her husband. 
 
 The rain had not ceased when Mr. 
 Micklewhame left the Assembly Room, so 
 he hurried to bis inn with all possible 
 despatch. Mr. IMicklewhame prided him- 
 self on his knowledge of the principles of 
 economy ; and when he travelled, he in- 
 variably made it a point to take no more 
 than two meals per diem — breakfast and 
 tea — both with a meat accompaniment ; 
 but this evening — this particular evening 
 
THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. 
 
 ■ — as lie sat toasting liis toes before an ex- 
 cellent fire, in a comfortable parlor of a 
 comfortable inn, and heard the rain patter- 
 ing against the casement, it, some how or 
 other, entered into his head that a tumbler 
 of punch would be by no means amiss. A 
 tumbler of punch was ordered in accord- 
 ingly ; after that came a second ; and a 
 third ; and — no we can't exactly say that 
 there was a fourth. At all events, th-ere 
 wa,s a marked inclination first towards one 
 side of the staircase, and then towards the 
 other, in Mr. Andrew Micklewhame's as- 
 cent to his bedroom that evening. Nay, 
 more ; he attempted to kiss Kirsty as she 
 was depositing the candlestick upon the 
 table ; but he missed his aim, and measured 
 his length on the floor. By the time he 
 was up again, Kirsty had vanished. 
 
 Mr. Micklewhame was a little annoyed 
 that he could not use the precaution of 
 bolting his door. The mysterious man, 
 with the black whiskers and broad shoul- 
 ders, had not yet claimed his bed, although 
 it was pretty well on towards 
 
 " The wee short hour ayont the twaL" 
 
 " I don't half like this sleeping in a 
 double-bedded room, with a man I never 
 saw," he thought, but did not venture to 
 say it aloud, lest some one might be with- 
 in ear shot, and set him down as a coward. 
 " I wonder," exclaimed he, as he pro- 
 ceeded to undress before the yet glowing 
 embers of a consumptive fire, " whether — 
 hie — whether the f — f — fellow snores. I 
 sha'nt sleep, I'm sure— hie — I sha'nt — hie 
 — sleep, if the f — f — fellow snores." 
 
 Having delivered himself of this very 
 sensible observation, he £!;ot into one of 
 the beds in the best way he could, covered 
 himself up warm, and fell fast asleep. 
 
 Dreams visited his pillow ; distorted 
 visions, in which Kirsty, the dark-eyed 
 damoiselle, and the man with the black 
 whiskers, bore prominent parts, flitted 
 across his fancy. Then he felt himself borne 
 through the air by a vulture in a shabby 
 brown greatcoat, which set him down on 
 the top of a high house, and flew away. 
 
 He thought he got up and groped his way 
 along the house-top ; but, missing his 
 footing, he fell over, and would certainly 
 have had his brains dashed out upon the 
 pavement below, had not the motion of 
 his descent caused him to start and 
 awaken. All was still within the chamber. 
 He looked out of bed, but could discover 
 no signs of the appearance of his mysteri- 
 ous neighbor ; ^q he composed himself to 
 sleep again. This time, however, he was 
 not so successful as at first ; for it was 
 only after some time that he could coax 
 himself into a sort of doze — something be- 
 twixt sleeping and waking. While in this 
 state, he fancied he saw the man in the 
 brown greatcoat enter the room ; then he 
 saw a flash of light ; then he imagined he 
 smelt sulphur ; and then, all of a sudden, 
 he felt himself in reality pulled half out 
 of bed, 
 
 " Hollo ! hollo !" cried he ; " what 
 the deuce is the matter V and he rubbed 
 his eyes until he found himself wide 
 awake, 
 
 "Sir, sir!" cried a voice, "you've 
 made a mistake — you've got into my bed 
 in place of your own." 
 
 Any one in Andrew's place but Andrew 
 himself, would have cursed and sworn like 
 a trooper at a person daring to awaken 
 him from a comfortable snooze, upon such 
 slight pretences ; but Andrew was a peace- 
 able man — he never liked to make any 
 disturbance — and he actually, without say- 
 ins: a word, turned out of the bed he had 
 warmed for himself, and allowed the stran- 
 ger to get into his place. He was sure, 
 at all events, that he had not given up his 
 bed to any but the lawful tenant of the 
 room ; for a blink of firelight gleamed upon 
 a pair of extensive whiskers, with shoul- 
 ders to correspond. The features struck 
 Andrew as being familiar to him ; but he 
 could not, though he tried, for the life of 
 him, recollect where he had before seen 
 them. He cursed the fellow's impudence, 
 as he discovered that the smell of sulphur 
 which had saluted his olfactory nerves, 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 was not the smell of sulphur, but of a can- 
 dle having been blown out. He did not 
 dare, though, to utter a word on the sub- 
 ject. He felt very much afraid — indeed, 
 so much so, that it was not till after an 
 hour's perambulation through the room, 
 that he could prevail on himself to lie 
 down in the empty bed. Again he fell 
 fast asleep. 
 
 When he awoke, the morning light was 
 streaming into the room through the chinks 
 of the shutters. He wondered very much 
 what o'clock it was, as he remembered 
 that he purposed setting off hj the omni- 
 bus at nine, and groped about for his 
 watch. Horror ! — he had left it beneath 
 the pillow of the other bed. 
 
 Jumping to the floor with considerable 
 agility, and opening the shutters with a 
 bang, in the hope that noise and daylight 
 would bring him courage, the first objects 
 that met his astonished gaze, were a shab- 
 by brown greatcoat and a shocking bad 
 hat, lying carelessly on a chair. Had any 
 one asked Andrew to shave his head without 
 soap, or give sixpence for a penny loaf, 
 he could not have been more amazed or 
 terror-stricken than he was at that mo- 
 ment. That the shabby brown greatcoat 
 and the shockina; bad hat belonged to the 
 mysterious man with the black whiskers, 
 and that the mysterious man with the 
 black whiskers, and he who had sat be- 
 side the damsel with the bright eyes at 
 the play, were one and the same individu- 
 al, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame had not 
 the smallest doubt, and thereupon he be- 
 gan to get a little fidgetty regarding his 
 watch. The curtains of the bed were 
 closely drawn — so closely that Andrew 
 could not see in ; and he did not just like 
 at first to open the curtains, and disturb 
 the whiskered youth in the same manner 
 as the whiskered youth had disturbed him. 
 No. Andrew was a more generous mind- 
 ed man than that. 
 
 He paced the room for some time, fan- 
 cying all sorts of things about the owner 
 of the shabby brown greatcoat, but never 
 
 taking his eye off the curtains, resolved to 
 rush forward on the first appearance of 
 their opening. 
 
 " 'Tis foT no good this fellow lives 
 here," thought Andrew. *' All a sham, 
 too, his being connected with these play- 
 era. I have no doubt in mj own mind 
 that he is either the murderer of Begbic 
 in disguise, or a resurrectionist. Ah I 
 perhaps he has run away from the world, 
 and come here for the purpose of commit- 
 ting suicide in a quiet way. But no ; 
 why should he ? That's quite improba- 
 ble." And, after thinking all this, he 
 paused for about five minutes, then ex- 
 claimed, not aloud, however — " I can bear 
 this suspense no longer. Ecod ! I'll ask 
 the fellow who he is, and, at the same time^ 
 claim my watch !" 
 
 So saying, he rushed forward with a de- 
 termined air, drew the curtains, and dis- 
 covered — the bed was empty I 
 
 '' He can't have gone far, for he left 
 his coat and hat behind him," were An- 
 drew's reflections ; and as he said this, he 
 looked for his watch, and then for his 
 clothes. Amazement ! they were all gone ; 
 watch, shirt, cofit, vest, ar^d inexpressi- 
 bles — all had vanished. In a parozysm 
 of fury he rang the bell; and, presently, 
 the voice of Kirsty, from without, in- 
 quired, as she half- opened the door, and 
 thrust forward a pair of well worn Wel- 
 lino-tons, which Andrew rocoimised as not 
 belonging to him — " D'ye please to want 
 ony thing else .^" 
 
 " Anything else !" roared Andrew, 
 choking with rage, and utterly regardless 
 of the respect due to the sez of the speaker. 
 " Come in here, and help me to find my 
 trousers !" 
 
 " O you — ye '11 wait awhile, I'm thinkin, 
 or I do siccan a thins'." 
 
 " Zounds ! that infernal fellow must 
 have carried them off I'' muttered An- 
 drew. 
 
 " Na, na," said Kirsty ; " it's no the 
 infernal gentleman ava, man. I wadna 
 bo the least surprised but it's that auld 
 
 n'l 
 
THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. 
 
 85 
 
 punchy Ibiiddy that sleepit in this room 
 last nicht, and ran awa this morning, wi' 
 the nine o''clock omnibush, without payin 
 his reckonin, that's ta'en your breeks ; 
 but ye needna mind, ye can just pit on his 
 for a day." 
 
 This was too much. To be told that 
 he himself was the thief of his own o-no- 
 we-R9ver-mention-ems, and that he had 
 run away that morning without paying his 
 reckoning, was more than Andrew Mickle- 
 whame co^ld bear. 
 
 " Are you mad, Woman. ?" cried he. 
 *' Confound 3^ou, Til leave your house in- 
 stantly, and bring an action for the re- 
 covery of my cloth es»" 
 
 " Your claes, quotha — your ciaes. My 
 man, thae tricks winna do here, I can tell 
 ye. Ye 're fund oot at last. My ceilie, • 
 to hear a fallow speakin o' claes, whan 
 it's weel kenned he had nae maer than a 
 brown greatcoat, an auld hat, an' a pair 
 o' boots I wadna gie tippence for. Ye're 
 fund oot at last. There's twa chaps be- - 
 low has twa or three words to say to 
 ye." 
 
 " They may go to the devil, and you 
 along with them !" was Andrew's pert re- 
 joinder. 
 
 ^' Bide a bit— juist bide a bit Hy," 
 cried Kirsty, seemingly over the bannis- 
 ters of the stair, to some unkaowji indivi- 
 dual or individuals below. " Stap up this 
 w-ay, will ye ?" 
 
 And fast upon the heels of this sum- 
 mons, in walked two justice of peace offi- 
 cers, who, despite the asseverations of Mr. 
 Andrew Micklewhame that he was him- 
 self and no other, ordered him to don the 
 brown G;reatcoat, and the sho-ckino- bad 
 hat, and follow them. 
 
 '-'■ WeVe pursued you from Queens- 
 ferry," said the first — ^' round by Edin- 
 l)urgh, Glasgow, and Stirling ; and Grog 
 the innkeeper is determined to punish 
 jou, unless you pay him for the eight 
 weeks' board you had in his house, and 
 our espouses over and above," 
 
 It was in vain that Mr, Mi<^klewhame 
 
 protested he had never been in Queens- 
 ferry in his life ; nor had he the honor of 
 the acquaintance of Grog the innkeeper ; 
 but, at length, seeing that it was impossi- 
 ble to convince the officers to the contrary, 
 he thought it advisable to pay the amount 
 of their demand, and trust to law and jus- 
 tice afterwards for retribution. Even 
 with this he found himself unable to com- 
 ply — his purse, containing every rap he 
 owned in the Avorld, was in the pockets of 
 his inexpressibles. 
 
 There was no help for it. With de- 
 spair in his countenance, he dofaned the 
 shabby brown greatooat and the dilapidat- 
 ed Wellingtons, took the shocking bad 
 hat in his hand, and, in silence, followed 
 the officers of justice down stairs, deter- 
 mining to appeal to the generosity of the 
 landlady, who, he had no doubt, would 
 give full credence to his story. 
 
 The present mishap of Mr. Mickle- 
 whame had arisen solely fi*om the fact of 
 his having taken so much toddy overnight, 
 which was the means of his sleeping long- 
 er and more soundly in the morning than 
 usTial. Kirsty, ever vigilant, had gone to 
 the door of the double-bedded room and 
 knocked, at the same time calling out, 
 with a stentorian voice, that " The omni- 
 bush was ready to start." All this was 
 unheeded by Andrew, who slept on, utter- 
 ly u£c©nscious of the progress of time. 
 Not so, however, was it with the other 
 occupant of the chamber ; for no sooner 
 did he hear Kirsty 's summons, than a 
 lucky thought occurred to him ; and he 
 bawled through the door, in tones " not 
 loud but deep," that he would be down 
 instantly. He then proceeded, in the 
 coolest manner possible, to adorn himself 
 in the habiliments of his somniferous 
 neighbor ; which, he soon perceived, were 
 " a world too wide" for him — a fault 
 which he instantly remedied by the assist- 
 ance of a pillow, disposed of after the 
 manner he had seen greater actors than 
 himself " make themselves up" for the 
 character of Falstaff. Thus equipped, 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 lie removed Andrew's watch from beneath 
 the pillow, and placed it in the same 
 pocket it had occupied the preceding d-ay ; 
 took off his portable bushy whiskers, and put 
 them in his pocket ; then bidding adieu 
 to his brown greatcoat and napless hat^ 
 which, with the accompaniment of a pair 
 of well-worn Wellington boots, had been 
 his only attire for many a day, he strode 
 from the apartment, carefully shutting the 
 door behind him. As he got to the foot 
 of the stairs, there was Kirsty in the outer 
 passage. For a moment he felt undeter- 
 mined what course next to pursue ; but 
 his never-failing wit came to his aid, and 
 stepping into a side room, the window of 
 which looked out into the street, he de- 
 sired Kirsty to bring him his bill of fare — 
 i. e.y the bill of fare peculiar to Mr. An- 
 drew Micklewhame — and a sheet of writ- 
 ing-paper, with pens and ink. Those 
 being brought, and Kirsty having shut the 
 door, leaving him " all alone in his glory," 
 he scribbled a few lines on the paper, and 
 made it up in the form of a letter. This 
 was no sooner done, than the " impatient 
 bugle" — vulgo vocato, tin horn — of the 
 omnibus cad, who stood on the opposite 
 side of the street, just behind the omnibus, 
 holding open the door with his left hand, 
 blew a blast so loud and shrill, that all those 
 in waiting in the street, who had seri- 
 ous intentions of proceeding to Stirling by 
 that conveyance, seemed, of one accord, 
 to know that it was their last warning ; so 
 shaking hands with the friends who had 
 come " to see them off," they scrambled 
 nimbly up the steps of the omnibus, and 
 passed before the view of the bystanders 
 into its ponderous interior. Our actor 
 saw this, and, without more ado, he open- 
 ed the window and jumped into the street. 
 His letter he deposited in the post-office 
 receiving-box, and his body in the omni- 
 bus, which, being now full, the cad banged 
 to the door, gave the signal to the driver, 
 and off the omnibus rattled ; nor did Kirs- 
 ty or her mistress know of the escapement 
 of their guest, whom they both believed 
 
 to be Andrew Micklewhame, until he was 
 a considerable part on his way to Stir- 
 ling. 
 
 * # * # # 
 
 Kirsty was in the bar, stamping the post- 
 mark on some letters^ — for her mistress 
 was 'postmaster — and talking to a young" 
 woman with bright eyes. 
 
 " The villain that he is !" said Kirsty. 
 " A married man !" Wha wad hae thoucht 
 it ? an' a playactor too, crinkypatie ! He'll 
 be doon the noo, and ye'll see him then. 
 There's twa gentlemen gaen up ta him a 
 wee while ag-o." 
 
 At this moment the landlady opened 
 the door of a parlor off the bar, and hand- 
 ed to Kirsty some letters, which she had 
 been ostensibly arranging for delivery — in 
 reality, making herself acquainted with 
 their contents. 
 
 " Here's six for delivery, and one to lie- 
 till called for !" Kirsty took them ; and 
 as her mistress shut the door, read aloud 
 from the back of the letter — " To lie till 
 called for." The name, ' Mrs. Isabella 
 Young !' " 
 
 "What'" exclaimed the dai'k eyed 
 young woman, starting, " a letter for me .'"' 
 And she almost snatched it out of Kirsty 'is 
 hand. A gleam of joy played upon her 
 handsome face as she read — 
 
 " Dear Isy, — I enclose you a crown ; 
 if you want more, apply to Manager Trash 
 for my arrears of salary. I'm off to Perth 
 with the toggery of an old fellow who 
 slept in the same room with me last night. 
 They'll perhaps talk of pursuing me ; if 
 so, detain them as long as possible, and 
 follow, at your leisure, 
 
 " Your affectionate 
 
 " Patrick Young." 
 
 At this juncture appeared Andrew in the 
 custody of the two officers ; and the dam- 
 sel of the dark eyes, taldng her cue from 
 the document she had just perused, rushed 
 forward and threw herself into his arms, 
 exclaiming, " My own, my lost one ! — Oh ! 
 do not — do not drag my husband from 
 
THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. 
 
 87 
 
 me !" The latter part of her sentence 
 was addressed to the officers of justice. 
 
 ''Loshifjcairyme!" cried Kirsty; "he's 
 lost his bonny black whiskers, and turned 
 fatter nor he was!" Then, after a mo- 
 ment's reflection, she added — " But thae 
 player buddies can do ony thing!" 
 
 " My pretty one," said Andrew, " I 
 know nothing of you !" Yet the young 
 woman still clung to his embrace. " You 
 vile woman," he continued, waxing wroth, 
 " get you gone. I'll tell your husband if 
 you don't !" But Mrs. Young clung closer 
 and closer to him. He then addressed 
 himself to Kirsty, desiring her to inform 
 her mistress that he wished to say a few 
 words to her. " Tell her,'' he continued, 
 " that J am in great tribulation here, and 
 I wish her to advance a small sum of mo- 
 ney to these gentleman, which will be re- 
 turned with grateful thanks as soon as I 
 get to Edinburgh." 
 
 Kirsty grumbled a little at being sent on 
 such an errand ; but proceeded into the 
 little parlor off the bar. In a few seconds 
 she returned, saying — " My mistress'll no 
 advance money to ony man unless to her 
 lawfu' husband ; and she says gif ye like 
 to marry her she'll do't, but no unless. 
 I'm sure I dinna ken what she means, see- 
 ing ye're a married man already !"" 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Andrew ; " marry 
 a woman I never saw .?" 
 
 " On nae ither condition will she ad- 
 vance the money. Between oorsels, my 
 mistress is worth at least twa thousand." 
 
 " Two thousand pounds !'' thought An- 
 drew. " The speculation wouldn't be 
 such a bad one, after all." And, after a 
 show of hesitation, he gave a reluctant 
 consent, as the only way, and a speedy 
 one, to relieve him from his difficulties. 
 His private debts amounted to at least a 
 hundred pounds ; and with two thousand 
 pounds he could pay that ; ay, and live 
 like a prince besides. 
 
 The whole party was ushered into the 
 little back parlor, where, to complete An- 
 drew's amazement, he descried, seated 
 over a cup of coffee, the identical Widow 
 Brown to whom he had given the slip six 
 years before. She rose and shook him by 
 the hand. 
 
 "Be not amazed!" she said. ^' The 
 moment I saw you, from the window of 
 this room, enter my inn yesterday, I re- 
 cognised you, and my love for you return- 
 ed. I know all." She certainly did, 
 for she had read Patrick Young's letter 
 to his wife. " I shall procure your imme- 
 diate release ; and should you rue the con- 
 sent you have just given, you are free to 
 return to Edinburgh as you came — a single 
 
 man 
 
 "Generous woman!" cried Andrew, 
 sinking on one knee. " This — this is too 
 much ! Think ye I could again desert 
 you.? No, by heaven!" — Here he laid 
 his hand upon his breast, and turned up 
 the white of his eyes in an attempt to look 
 pathetic. The widow raised him and led 
 him to a seat. The officers were dismissed ; 
 and the damsel with the dark eyes escaped 
 through the open door as they went out, 
 fearful of beino- detained for her deceitful 
 attempt upon the person of Andrew 
 Micklewhame. 
 
 In a few days the nuptials were solem- 
 nized; and Andrew Micklewhame ever 
 blessed the lucky chance that led him to 
 Alloa. 
 
 History is silent regarding the ultimate 
 fate of Mr. Patrick Young ; but it is to 
 be hoped that he was either hanged or 
 sent to Botany Bay. Neither Mr. nor 
 Mrs. Micklewhame thought it worth their 
 while to pursue him for the injuries he had 
 done them ; and Grog the innkeeper could 
 not, for his myrmidons had lost the scent 
 of the stroller from the moment he fled 
 from Alloa. 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 RINGAN OLIVER. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no traditionary history 
 so popular in Jed Forest as that of Ringan 
 Oliver of Smailcleughfoot. Ringan was 
 one of the champions of the Covenant — 
 one of those stern, devoted worthies to 
 whom Scotland owes so much of its civil 
 and religious liberty. He was a man of 
 uncommon strength and courage, excel- 
 ling in every athletic exercise, but especi- 
 ally in that of the broadsword, in which 
 he might be said to be almost matchless. 
 It is reported of him, that he measured 
 nearly a yard across the shoulders, being 
 otherwise well built in proportion ; and 
 also that, when an old man, he could 
 have taken up in the wield of his arm a 
 ten half-fu' boll of barley, and thrown it 
 on a horse's back with the utmost ease. 
 Of his early life there are comparatively 
 few anecdotes preserved ; but it would 
 appear that he was all along a steady and 
 active supporter of his party ; for it is well 
 known that he fought in many, if not in 
 all of the battles wherein his misused 
 country asserted its disposition never to 
 submit to misrule and tyranny. At the 
 skirmish of Drumclog he fought side by 
 side with Hackston of Rathillet, and Hall 
 of Haughead, and won their especial ap- 
 plause by his bravery ; and at Bothwell 
 Bridge he was one of the three hundred 
 who, under Hackston and Hall, so well 
 contested the passage, and for a while 
 withstood the repeated efforts of Mon- 
 mouth's army. In this service, besides 
 being severely wounded, he had his hip 
 joint dislocated, but was saved from fall- 
 ing into the hands of the enemy by the 
 exertions of his friends. In the long and 
 relentless persecution to which the Cove- 
 nanters were subjected by this unfortunate 
 battle, Ringan, like many others, was a 
 proscribed fugitive. While under hiding, 
 
 he was much in the company of his friend 
 Hall — a man to whose character his own, 
 in many points, closely approximated, and 
 with whose family, at a subsequent period, 
 he was connected by marriage. The fate 
 of Hall is well known. He lost his life 
 at Queensferry, in defending himself when 
 about to be taken by the governor of 
 Blackness. He had parted from Ringan 
 only a short while before this happened ; 
 and bitterly, bitterly did the latter ever 
 afterwards regret his being from the side 
 of a friend to whom he was so much at- 
 tached, in his hour of need. But in those 
 days, when oppression and slaughter made 
 such cruel mastery of an afflicted country, 
 the regrets of friendship were particularly 
 unavailing. 
 
 The dark period of crime and bloodshed 
 at length ended in the Revolution ; and 
 Ringan, whose principles forbade him to 
 remain idle while the good work was uii- 
 finished, again girt on his sword and gave 
 his services to the army that was sent to 
 oppose the rebellion of Dundee. He was 
 at the battle of Killieerankie, where he 
 greatly distinguished himself, killing, as it 
 is said, all that came before him. In the 
 disastrous defeat and dispersion of Mae- 
 kay's army which followed, he and a small 
 party of friends, by keeping together, 
 made good their retreat, and reached 
 Dunkeld next morning a little after day- 
 break. Here a circumstance occurred 
 which sufficiently proves that Ringan 
 lacked nothing of the true spirit of chi- 
 valry — a quality, by the wa}'', for which 
 the Covenanters were not much celebrated 
 — their fighting not being for personal 
 honor, but for the establishment of what 
 they considered to be the true kingdom of 
 Christ, and the extirpation of Popery, 
 Prelacy, and Erastianism. The party 
 
r.LXGAN OLIVER. 
 
 89 
 
 had lialtad at a frieiurs lioiisc in tli3 to^vn, 
 for 111.) purpoB3 of taking somo refrcsli- 
 iiioiit, and had just SL'ated thomsr^lves at 
 tahk^, when thjir eiv.s \vOi-c rogalod bj a 
 proclamation niado on the strdit opposite 
 their windov:. it Tvas bawled foith, in 
 ton.^s of fire and brimstone, from the lea- 
 tliern lungs of an nnch:nt, Einolio-dried 
 Highland drummer, and ran as foilovrs : — 
 
 '• Ochilow, an' a petter ochilow ! This 
 is to p3 kiving notice to ail it may pc 
 conceining, that Rory Dim Mhorc of ta 
 clan Donocdiy, \Yill pe keeping ta crown 
 of ta causeway, in ta town of Tunkeld, for 
 wan hour an' nmore ; an' he is tesiring it 
 civilly to pe knovrn, that, if there pe auy 
 canting, poohooing, psalm -singing, Whig 
 repollioner in ta toiin, let him peso bonld 
 as t.) pe coining forth from his holes, an' 
 lookin'r ta said iU)ry Dhu in ta face ; an' 
 ta said I'ory -Ohu hereby kives promise to 
 pe so III "ry condescending as to pc cutting 
 ta same filthy Whig loon shorter py ta 
 lue'S, for ta honor of King Shames. 
 Ochilow 1 Cot save King Shames !" 
 
 Weary, dispiiitj^d, and satiated \Yith 
 carnage as he was, this ridicidons chal- 
 lenge was so uuii'ormiy insuitino; in its 
 tenor, tliat Kiugan did not for a moment 
 h^sitat) in resolvino' to answer it. His 
 f i 'ndslcft no argument untried to dissuade 
 him from his purpos3 ; they ropresc-ntsd 
 to him Vv'hat madness it was for men in 
 lh ir condition to notice every foolish bra- 
 vado ] also, what small chance he "would 
 h;ivo of anything like fair play, in a place 
 so decidedly in favor of a barbarous ene- 
 my ; and, these means failing, they made 
 fast t.h3 door, in hopes to restrain him by 
 personal force ; — but all was in vain — hi.s 
 determination was fixed, not to be shaken, 
 
 " My friends,*^ said he, rising, and 
 grasping his sword. " let me out, 1 beseech 
 you. i r.uist and will light with this 
 Philistine. God do so to mc and mere 
 also, if 1 do not cither humble this proud 
 boaster, or he shall humble me." 
 
 The words had not been well spoken, 
 before the speaker had made his way 
 
 through tli^ window, end in a few mo- 
 ni'Mits more had confrontc-d the challenger, 
 who was parading the street a few paces 
 in rear of the (*ld drummer, Ihrj chal- 
 lenger, it mtiy be romarke(], was a Hig-h- 
 landman amon^:: -i t^iousand. To agigaiitio 
 stature and a H'^rcuban mak'% he added 
 the reputation of being one of tlie best 
 swordsmen of his da}', having slain more 
 men 'in single fight than he "^^as years old. 
 lie was, besides, a personage of the m '-t 
 ferocious air and aspect ; isnd, as he u >\v 
 appeared in all his accoutrements, striding 
 alon:;; and bearing himself so proudly, with 
 his head thrown back, and his turned up 
 nose scornfully snafHng the morning wind, 
 the sight might well have appalled any 
 Christian that had the least reirard for the 
 thin» called self-preservation. 
 
 " Diaoul ! fwat may she pe that will pe 
 approaching, in such wnys and uianners, 
 pefoi-e a Highland jshentlemans .^ " a-^ked 
 Rory Dh.u ?ilhore, 4»f the clan Donoehy — 
 already snorting with cholor nt thj sight 
 of an antagonist 
 
 "i am,'' said Ringan, calmly, '*the 
 soldier of Kinij William, onr temporal 
 deliverer, and the servant, however nn- 
 TTorthy, of King Christ, our Spiiitual 
 Redeemer ; and here I staod to bid you 
 make good your proud snd profane 
 boastin9'. '' 
 
 " Fhei'V go-ot, intent,'' rcfuraed Uory 
 Dhu, writhing his grim features into li 
 sneer of the most haughty eontempi; ; 
 " fhn-y goot, inteet. You were ;?ft:r sup- 
 perina' at Kiliiecrankie and now you are 
 after a prcakfast at Dunkcld. And you 
 shall have it '" roared tiie speaker, draw- 
 ing the sword, and brandishing it round 
 his head. '• Come on, you everlasting 
 Lov/lau'l baist, and I wi'I pe kiviug yonr 
 carrion to the crows of the airth." 
 
 Thus menac -d, Ringan lost not a mo- 
 ment in drawing in his tu-n ; and the 
 combat commenced. For some time its 
 issue appeared somewhat doubt fal. With 
 regard to both str^-ngth and skill, the par- 
 ties were w^dl matched ; but the riigh- 
 
90 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 landman, besides being the fresher of the 
 two, had retained his target — the use of 
 which gave him, in the long run, no small 
 advantage. Ringan soon became aware of 
 the oversight he had been guilty of in 
 fighting upon an unequal footing ; but it 
 was now too late to remonstrate. In all 
 his battles he had never, by individual 
 prowess, been so hard bestedd. The 
 longer he fought, the more was he sensible 
 the day went against him. Both he and 
 his enemy were wounded ; but his own 
 wounds were the most severe, and he ex- 
 perienced so much faintness that, ulti- 
 mately, he was able only to protract the 
 contest by yielding ground, and warding 
 off the fastcoming blows. His friends saw 
 his condition, and their hopes grew faint; 
 but when at length they saw his antagonist 
 bear so hard upon him as to bring him to 
 his knee, they gave up his fate as decided. 
 But in this they were happily mistaken ; 
 for, while every eye was strained to see 
 him receive the finishing blow, the fortune 
 of the war, by one of those circumstances 
 which so frequently baffle foresight, was 
 instantaneously reversed. In his eager- 
 ness to finish the work, the Highlandman 
 had for a moment forgot to preserve his 
 defensive; and the Borderer, who had 
 been watching for this as his last chance, 
 summoned all his lagging vigor, and di- 
 rected a thrust at a part of his opponent's 
 body left uncovered by the target ; which 
 thrust proved efiectual, the steel piercing 
 him through the entrails. On receiving 
 the fatal wound, and so unexpectedly, 
 Rory Dhu Mhore, of the clan Donochy, 
 uttered a loud abrupt roar, like that of a 
 stricken ox, sprang several feet upwards 
 into the air, and then tumbled down upon 
 the causeway, a dying man. A yell of 
 mingled grief and rage, for the fall of their 
 champion, burst from such of the specta- 
 tors as were his friends ; and, as it was 
 accompanied by a general rush towards 
 the immediate scene of contest, it is likely 
 that the victor would have been butchered 
 on the spot, had not his fellows been on 
 
 the alert, and ready at the instant to sur- 
 round him and bear him back to their 
 quarters — a service which they accom- 
 plished with some difficulty, and no small 
 danger. To have prolonged their stay in 
 Dunkeld, under the existing circumstan- 
 ces, would have been madness. The 
 party, therefore, after Riugan's wounds 
 had been hastily dressed, and his strength 
 recruited by some slight refreshment, left 
 the house by a back door, gained the Tay 
 unobserved, and, getting across in a chance 
 boat, took the road to Perth without mo- 
 lestation. It is more than probable, how- 
 ever, that the fugitives would not have 
 been allowed to escape so easily, had not 
 the intelligence just been received in 
 Dunkeld of the fall of Lord Dundee — a 
 circumstance more adverse to the hopes 
 of the Jacobites than if his victory had 
 been a defeat. 
 
 The wounds which Ringan had received 
 in the duel did not prevent him from im- 
 mediately joining the Cameronian regi- 
 ment, under the gallant Cleland, nor from 
 returning with it to Dunkeld, within the 
 brief period of three weeks, to act a con- 
 spicuous part in the defence of that place 
 against the forces of Colonel Cannon, 
 Dundee's successor. But the memory of 
 this action, in which a handful of brave 
 men withstood, and eveatually repulsed, 
 an army above five times their own num- 
 ber, occupies a brilliant place in the page 
 of history. 
 
 After the liberties of his country had 
 been fully secured, Ringan returned home, 
 to spend the remainder of his life in the 
 bosom of his family, and in the undis- 
 turbed exercise of the duties of his reli- 
 gion. He resided at Smailcleughfoot — a 
 small farm which he held of Lord Douglas, 
 distant three miles from Jedburgh, and 
 half a mile from Ferniehirst, then the seat 
 of the Marquis of Lothian. In his retire- 
 ment on the " sylvan Jed," the old Co- 
 venanter was not more famed for his feats 
 as a warrior than he was respected as a 
 most intelligent man, whose integrity was 
 
RINGAN OLIVER. 
 
 91 
 
 unimpeachable. His character did not 
 escape the notice of his neighbor the 
 Marquis, who not only held him in high 
 estimation, but frequently sought his 
 counsel in affairs of the greatest moment. 
 This friendship, however, was ultimately 
 destined to prove the source of the brave 
 old man's ruin. The Marquis, on being- 
 called to London by some pressing busi- 
 ness, sent for Ringan before his departure, 
 and, showing him a room in Ferniehirst 
 Castle Vv^herein lay his most valuable 
 papers, gave him the key thereof, and 
 told him that he left it to his exclusive 
 keeping during his absence. This honor- 
 ary trust he accepted ; but soon had rea- 
 son to think that it was not without its 
 perils. No sooner was the Marquis gone, 
 than his son and heir, who. it would ap- 
 pear, was a very different man from his 
 father, came to Ringan, and peremptorily 
 demanded the key. It needs scarcely be 
 said, that this demand was met by a re- 
 spectful but decided refusal. The young 
 man, however, was unwilling to be said 
 nay ; he entreated, threatened, and even 
 mistook his man so far as to proffer bribes ; 
 but all was to no purpose — Ringan was 
 by no means to be wrought upon ; he 
 turned away from the unprincipled suppli- 
 cant, with only a look of indignant con- 
 tempt. Time wore away — the Marquis 
 returned, and found that he had not mis- 
 placed his confidence. Everything in the 
 strong room remained in the exact condi- 
 tion in which he had left it. In restoring 
 the key to its owner, and receiving his 
 acknowledgments, the old man made no 
 mention of the applications wherewith he 
 had been insulted in the discharsre of his 
 trust ; for he considered that such a dis- 
 closure, however consistent it might be 
 with duty, could not be made without 
 wounding the feelings of a father. 
 
 Shortly after this event the old noble- 
 man died, and was succeeded in his titles 
 and estates by his son. The new Marquis, 
 who had never for a moment forgot the 
 
 contumacy of Ringan in the matter of the 
 key, now determined upon the gratification 
 of his revenge ; and the contiguity of the 
 Covenanter's farm to the baronial resi- 
 dence, rendered this task comparatively 
 easy of accomplishment. Incited by their 
 lord, the vassals of Ferniehirst commenced 
 a regular series of insults and injuries, not 
 only to the old man in person, but to all 
 that belono;ed to him. For a lono- time 
 Ringan bore this bad treatment patiently, 
 resenting it neither by word nor deed. 
 He knew that it was in vain for him to 
 attempt contending with so powerful an 
 adversary, and thought to disarm his 
 malice by non-resistance. But in this he 
 was mistaken; his forbearance produced 
 only fresh and aggravated persecution. 
 At last it fell out, on a harvest day, that 
 the Marquis, having gathered together a 
 company of his retainers, with horses and 
 hounds, crossed the Jed, and chose for a 
 hunting ground Ringan's field of barley ; 
 the grain being dead ripe and ready for 
 the sickle. This outrage was not to be 
 borne. Ringan went to the huntsmen, 
 and civilly, but firmly, told them to desist 
 from hunting in his field, as they were ut- 
 terly destroying his crop. 
 
 " And pray, Father Greybeard," asked 
 the person who acted as chief huntsman, 
 " are you to prescribe limits to where my 
 Lord Marquis is to sport, and where he is 
 not .? Let me give you a small piece of 
 advice, my old hero — carry yourself home, 
 and look to the preservation of your health, 
 by keeping your feet warm and your pate 
 rather cool." 
 
 To this talk the old man made reply, 
 that he was unaccustomed to jesting ; that 
 in what he requested of them there was 
 nothing unreasonable ; and he concluded 
 by saying that, if they persisted in the de- 
 struction of his corn, he would certainly 
 shoot their dogs. 
 
 " Foh ! go home and pray, you old 
 canting scoundrel," cried the huntsman. 
 " Shoot our dogs, indeed ! I'll tell you 
 
92 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 i^ 
 
 what, if 3'0ii persist much longer in insult- 
 ing gentlemen, wo will hunt you to your 
 old haunts— th3 hills." 
 
 This provocation Avas far too gross for 
 the spirit of the old man to brook. Ho 
 retired into the house, and, returning with 
 Ins gnn, instantly put his threat into exe- 
 cution, by shooting two of the hounds. 
 In haYina: driven him to the commission of 
 this act, the huntsmen had attained their 
 purpose ; they, therefore, now departed, 
 uttering vov/s of deep vengeance. The 
 Marquis rode directly to the sheriff of the 
 county, and complained that he had been 
 interrupted in his field sports by an old 
 Camcronian rascal, who had given him in- 
 sultinir lan2;uao;e, and shot two of his best 
 dogs. A summons was immediately issued 
 for Ringan to appear and answer for his 
 misdemeanor at the sheriff- court ; but he 
 refused to comply; "for," said he, "1 
 have done no wrong ; I am accused neither 
 by ray God nor my conscience. What I 
 did was done in defence of my lawful pro- 
 perty, and 1 am resolved to abide by the 
 issue, whether it be for weal or wo." 
 
 The offender proving thus contumacious, 
 the next thing to be done was to prepare 
 a warrant for his apprehension, and for 
 bringing hlui to justice by force. But in 
 this course an unforeseen difficulty present- 
 ed itself — no sheriffs officer can be found 
 that would undertake to put the warrant 
 in execution, it being well known that the 
 old man would never suffer personal re- 
 straint without making a stout resistance. 
 In this dilemma the sheriff could think 
 of no plan of proceeding against the ac- 
 cused party so feasible as that of employ- 
 ins; ao-ainst him his accuser. He accord- 
 ingly lodged the warrant in the hands of 
 the Marquis, telling him to secure the old 
 rebel at all events. '-'• If one man," said 
 the sheriff, " be insufficient for the pur- 
 pose, take two ; if two cannot do the 
 business, take three, take ten, take fifty, 
 take a hundred if you will ; but secure 
 him, alive or dead." Thus authorized 
 and encouraged, the Marquis hastily col- 
 
 lected and armed a large party of his 
 friends and vassals, and set about the in- 
 stant execution of his enterprise. Ringan, 
 meanwhile, had seen the storm gathering 
 around him ; and now that it was about 
 to burst on his defenceless grey head, he 
 felt no dismay. His friends would have 
 advised him to seek safety in flight ; but 
 this he refused, saying—" I fled not from 
 danger when I was young and desirous of 
 living, and shall I flee now, when 1 am old 
 and ready for the grave .? He charged 
 his advisers that they were upon no ac- 
 count to take any part in his quarrel, as 
 their doing so could serve little purpose, 
 and would infallibly be the means of draw- 
 ing down vengeance upon themselves. 
 Accordingly, when the Marquis and his 
 little army were seen approaching Smail- 
 cleughfoot, Ringan's friends and family — 
 none of the latter being able to lend him 
 any assistance — retired from the house, 
 and stationed themselves on the top of a 
 high scaur immediately opposite, where 
 they might witness the issue of the contest. 
 The old man was not, however, left alto- 
 gether alone ; he had an auxiliary in the 
 person of a devoted maid-servant, whom 
 no entreaties could induce to desert her 
 loved and revered master in the time of 
 need. With her help he secured the door 
 and windows, putting the house into as 
 good a state of defence as circumstances 
 would admit of. He next collected to- 
 2;ether all the firearms in his possession — 
 these consisting of two or three old rusty 
 muskets, and as many horse pistols — and 
 instructed the maid in the process of load- 
 ing thom. Tlicse preparations had scarcely 
 been made before his assailants were close 
 at hand. The}' halted at a short distance 
 in front of the house ; and, on his present- 
 ing himself at a window, Sir John Ruther- 
 ford — a friend of the IMarquis, acting as 
 leader and spokesman of the party — sum- 
 moned him to surrender himself their pri- 
 soner, otherwise, by virtue of the sheriff's 
 warrant, they would proceed to take him 
 by force of arms. 
 
RINGAN OLIVER. 
 
 ^3 
 
 ^^ Sirs," said Ringan, ''• you shall havo 
 my answer in few words. I will surrender 
 my libert}^ to no one so long as I can de- 
 fend it, or at least till you can make it 
 appear that 1 have been guilty of a broacli 
 of tlio laws of my country. But this you 
 cannot do, for I have done no wrong to 
 any one, and therefore protest against all 
 your proceedings as oppressive and cruel." 
 " Hillo, hillo !-— none of your preaching, 
 old fellow," cried Sir John. " You are 
 going to favor us with a new act and tes- 
 timony. In a word, do you surrender 
 yourself our prisoner, or do you not .?" 
 
 " I do not," was the reply, given in a firm 
 tone. " 1 am ready, God supporting me, 
 to defend myself to the last estremity." 
 
 " Forward, then, my friends !" cried 
 Sir John. " Let us burst open the door, 
 and drag the old canting thief out by the 
 cars." 
 
 In obedience to this command, the be- 
 siegers had advanced a few steps, when 
 the besieged presented his musket, and 
 told them to approach the door at their 
 peril. 
 
 " The old rebel resists the course of 
 justice — shoot him, friends ! ' cried Sir 
 John Rutherford ; and he had not the 
 words well uttered when half-a-score of 
 carabines flashed, and their contents rat- 
 tled through the window at which the old 
 man was stationed. | 
 
 " Bad ball practice for so many, "-coolly ; 
 remarked the veteran, as, levelling his 
 musket, he fired in his turn, and with such 
 narrow elfect that the bullet carried away 
 one of the curls of Sir John Rutherford's 
 wi<T^. 
 
 Actual hostilities havinc: thus commenc- 
 ed, both the attack and the defence were, 
 from this time forward, carried on with 
 unabating vigor. Shower after shower of 
 bullets lattled and rang through the win- 
 dows : one detachment of the beseio-ers 
 attempting to burst open the door, and 
 another to set fire to the roof; but the 
 efforts of neither were attended with suc- 
 cess—the door being of trusty oak, and 
 
 the thatch of the roof too damp to burn. 
 The boseiged, on their part, were no less 
 active than their assailants ; while, to their 
 strength, they were certainly both more 
 skilful and determined. The maid sup- 
 plied her master with loaded guns ; and 
 he kept up so brisk and well-directed a 
 fire, that his enemies were repulsed in 
 every attempt they made to efiect an in- 
 gress by the windows, or those parts of the 
 house that v/ere of themselves the least 
 defensible. How long this unequal war- 
 fare might have lasted, it is hard to say, 
 had not the course of events been preci- 
 pitated by the fate of Ringan's tiithful as- 
 sistant. The old man had cautioned the 
 maid against exposing herself within tho 
 range of the enemy's guns, telling her to 
 keep always close behind him ; but, in her 
 zjal to render him good service, this cau- 
 tion was neglected — a bullet pierced her 
 heart — she uttered but one sio-h, and fell 
 dead at his feet. All the veteran warrior's 
 self-possession now forsook him : he in- 
 stantly adopted the dssperatj resolution 
 of opposing himself to the dastardly mur- 
 derers in an open field ; of being fully 
 avenged, or — he did not care which — of 
 perishing in the attempt. Grasping his 
 broadsword in one hand, and a heavy axe 
 in the other, he undid the door, and was 
 in the act of springing forth, v/hen — his 
 foot having got entangled in a rope which 
 had been used in fastening a bolt — he fell, 
 and, ere he could recover himself, a ruf- 
 fianly wretch of the name of Allan, a 
 tinker, struck him on the head with a fore- 
 hammer — the blow St unning him and break- 
 ing his jawbone. To remove his weapons 
 and bind hia hands v/as nov; the work of a 
 moment; and it was attended with neither 
 difficulty nor danger, as he was past mak- 
 ing the least resistance. When his senses 
 began to recover, his eyes opened first 
 upon the ?»Iarquis, who, probably fearing 
 he had carriid his revenge too fiir, was 
 bending over his victim, and wiping the i 
 blood from his face, in order to ascertain | 
 the extent of his injury. Instantly the 
 
94 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 old man darted on his oppressor a look of 
 stern reproach, and, spurning him from 
 him with his foot, told him that he could 
 endure his hatred but not his kindness. 
 The victors now led their prisoner away, 
 and, as they crossed the Jed at Fernie- 
 hirst Mill, where there is a fine well, the 
 old man, feeling faint from his loss of 
 blood, begged for a little of the water, 
 
 " Poor Ringan !" cried the Marquis, 
 half in pity, half in mockery — " give him 
 a drink, by all means — perhaps it may 
 help to cool his choler." 
 
 " Young man," said the captive, with 
 dignity, "I am in your power, and your 
 childish taunts cannot, therefore, insult 
 me. You have finished your day's work, 
 and I cannot help saying, that it has been 
 a day's work more befitting a butcher than 
 a Scottish nobleman. It is well that your 
 father is in his grave ; he has b^en spared 
 from witnessing Tiis son's degeneracy.'' 
 
 The rest of Ringan's story shall be 
 briefly told. He was conveyed to Jed- 
 burgh, and fi-om thence to Edinburgh, 
 where he was imprisoned in the Tolbooth. 
 After a confinement of eight years, he was 
 at leno-th released, but so much altered in 
 appearance, that they who had known him 
 well in his better days, could not now re- 
 coo-nise him. He survived the date of his 
 release only a few years, and died in a 
 house in the Crosscauseway, Edinburgh, 
 in 1736. He was buried among the mar- 
 tyrs in Greyfriars' churchyard. 
 
 It may not be unpleasing to add, that 
 Ringan left behind him a son named Ro- 
 bert, who was a child at the time of his 
 father's capture, and who, after he had 
 grown a man, met with Allan the tinker 
 at the well near Ferniehirst Mill. Robert 
 had long tracked the old fellow, with a 
 desire to inflict on him that punishment 
 which the station of his father's other ene- 
 mies placed it beyond his power to inflict. 
 The tinker was sitting at the side of the 
 small well, with his wallet open before 
 him, a female companion along side of 
 hun, and in the act of enjoying that " feast 
 
 of liberty in which all strollers so much 
 delight. 
 
 "Meantime, far hind, out owre the lee, 
 Fu' snug, in a glen whar nane could see 
 Thir tvva, in kindly sport and glee, 
 Cut frae a new cheese a whang." 
 
 And, every now and then, the old gaber- 
 lunzie was trilling, in an old, broken, but 
 still joyous voice, some of the old lilts 
 that, in his younger days, were composed 
 on the great religious contest in which he 
 had taken a part. Again he applied to 
 his wallet ; and he did not hesitate, old as 
 he was, to have occasional recourse to the 
 lips of her who sat beside him. 
 
 " The preeing was guid, it pleased them baith ; 
 To loe her for aye he gave his aith ; 
 Quo scho, ' To leave thee I will be laithj 
 My winsome gaberlunaie man.' " 
 
 The scene roused the blood of Robert, 
 who thoucfht of the treacherous and cruel 
 part the old sinner before him had played 
 on that melancholy occasion, when his 
 father's misfortunes were crowned with the 
 last and greatest of his evils. Stepping 
 forward, he accosted the loving couple, 
 and dehberately took his seat by the side 
 of the well, from which his father had, on 
 that memorable day, been denied a drink 
 of its pure water. 
 
 '' Ha ! callant !" cried Allan, " I hae 
 seen the time when a drap o' that water 
 was prayed for by an auld, cantin Came- 
 ronian, as if it had belanged to that spring 
 o' life they thought nane had ony richt to 
 drink frae but themselves. But the, deil 
 a drap o't he got, the auld prayin rynk ; 
 and his wizzened craig was left to whcezle 
 forth his prayers, or curses on the heads 
 o' them wha fought for the guid cause o' 
 the kirk and ' the man.' " 
 
 " What was the name o' the prayin 
 rynk, as ye ca' him .'"' said Robert, 
 
 " Wha hasna heard o' Ringan Oliver, 
 the Cameronian ?" replied Allan. " Faith, 
 an' he was nae feckless smaik that, either 
 in bane, limb, or lire. How he did drive 
 his lano- iron kevel into the wames o' the 
 troopers, and murgeoned his Cameronian 
 
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 95 
 
 aitlis as lie saw their smolt spirits scour 
 awa to heaven like fire flaughts ! But it 
 was braw to see the auld scoundrel worry 
 wi' drouth on the day when he couldna 
 get a drink frae that wall to cool his burn- 
 in craig." 
 
 " Stand up, my freen," said Robert, 
 rising in great wrath ; and, taking the old 
 beggar's stick, put it into his hands. 
 " Stand up. A man that's no owre auld 
 to love and lee, is no owre auld to fecht 
 in his ain defence. 
 
 The sturdy carle sought his feet, and, 
 clutching his burly knotted piece of oak, 
 asked the plea of battle. 
 
 " I am Ringan Oliver's son," cried Ro- 
 bert, while his eyes flashed a fire that told 
 his deadly revenge. 
 
 *' And a stalwart warlock ye are," re- 
 plied the tinker; "but, auld as I am, I'll 
 mense my stafi" against yours yet, for the 
 memory o' that auld Cameronian wolf." 
 
 And he did not wait for the onset of his 
 younger foe, but dealt a heavy blow on the 
 head of Robert, who was, in the meantime, 
 laid hold of by the gipsy quean behind. 
 
 His youth and vigor, however, were too 
 much for his opponents. The first sturdy 
 blow brought the beggar to his knees ; and, 
 while he was rising, Robert put the wo- 
 man hors de combat^ and then returned to 
 wreak his vengeance on his principal ene- 
 my. This he did with so much address 
 and with such stern determination, that 
 he left him lying on the ground all but 
 dead. 
 
 Thus was one of the enemies of his 
 father punished ; and often did Robert try 
 to get some satisfaction for the old man's 
 wrongs from those who had a greater share 
 in his misfortunes ; but in this he never 
 succeeded. They lay beyond his reach ; 
 and the chief workman, to whom so much 
 responsibility attached itself, was allowed 
 to go free. Such, alas, is the way of the 
 world ! It only remains to be said, that 
 the old champion's broad-sword — a true 
 Andrew Ferrara — is still preserved. It 
 is at present in the possession of his col- 
 lateral descendant, Mr. James Veitch of 
 [nchbonny, by Jedburgh, the self-taught 
 ' natural philosopher. 
 
 THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM; 
 
 OR, THE SURPRISE OF FAST CASTLE. 
 
 Near where St. Abb stretches in mas- 
 sive strength into the sea, still terrible, 
 oven in ruins, may be seen the remains of 
 Fast Castle, one of the most interesting; in 
 its history — as it is the most fearfully ro- 
 mantic in its situation — of all the moul- 
 dering strongholds which are still to be 
 traced among the Borders, like monuments 
 of war, crumbling into nothingness be- 
 neath the silent but destroying touch of 
 tim.e. After the death of the blufi" Harry 
 the Eighth of England, who had long 
 kept many of the corruptible amongst the 
 
 Scottish nobility and gentry in his pay, 
 the ambitious Somerset, succeeding to the 
 ofiice of guardian of the young king, 
 speedily, under the name of Protector, 
 acquired an authority nothing inferior to 
 the power of an absolute monarch. He 
 had not long held the reins of government 
 when he rendered it evident that it was a 
 part of his ambition to subdue Scotland, 
 or the better portion of it, into a mere 
 province of England. 
 
 The then governor of Scotland, Hamil- 
 ton, Earl of Arran (for Queen Mary was 
 
3<> 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 but a child ) was not ignorant of the designs 
 of Somerset, and every preparation was 
 made to repel him on his crossing the 
 Borders. It was drawing towards evening 
 on the first of September lo47, when the 
 Protector, at the head of an army of 
 eighteen thouvsand men, arrived at Ber- 
 wick ; and nearly at the sariie instant, 
 while the gloaming yet lay light and thin 
 upon the sea, a fleet, consisting of thirty- 
 four vessels of war, thirty transports, and 
 a galley, were observed sailing round Em- 
 manuel's head — the most eastern point of 
 Holy Island. On the moment that the 
 fleet was perceived, St Abb's lighted up 
 its fires, thiowinga longline of light along 
 the darkening sea, from the black shore to 
 the far horizon ; and scarce had the first 
 flame of its alarm-fire v,^aved in the wind, 
 till the Dow Hill repeated the fiery signal ; 
 and, in a few minutes, Domilaw, Dum- 
 prender, and Arthur's Seat, exhibited 
 tops of fire as the night fell down on them, 
 bearing the tidings, as if lightnings flying 
 on different courses revealed them through 
 Berwickshire and the Lothians, and ena- 
 blin'^ Roxb-irdishire and Fife to read the 
 tale; while Binning's Craig, repeating 
 the telegraphic fire, startled the burghers 
 of Linlithgow on the one hand, and on 
 the other aroused the men of Lanark- 
 shire. 
 
 Before, therefore, the vessels had ar- 
 rived in the bay, or the Protector's army 
 had encamped in the Magdalen Fields 
 around Berwick — Berwickshire, Rox- 
 burgh, the Lothians, Fife, and Lanark, 
 were in arnvs. The cry from the hills and 
 in the glens was, " The eneniy is conre ! — 
 the English ! - to arms !" The shepherd 
 drove his Hocks to the inaccessible places 
 in the mountains ; he threw down his 
 crook and grasped his spear. 
 
 At the same time that Somerset crossed 
 the Borders on the east, the Earl of Len- 
 nox, who, from disappointed ambition, had 
 proved false to his country, entered it at 
 the head of another English army to the 
 west. 
 
 But I mean not to v>'rite a history of 
 Somerset's invasion — of the plausible pro- 
 posals which he made, and which were 
 rejected — nor of the advantages which the 
 Scots, through recklessness or want of dis- 
 cipline, flung away, and of the disasters 
 which followed. All the places of strength 
 upon the Borders fell into his hands, and 
 he garrisoned them from his army, and set 
 governors over them. The first place of 
 his attack was Fast Castle ; in which, af- 
 ter taking possession of it, he left a go- 
 vernor and strong garrison, composed of 
 English troops and foreign mercenaries, 
 causing also the people around, for their 
 own safety, to make to him an oath of 
 fealty, renouncing their allegiance to the 
 young queen. But while there v/ere many 
 who obeyed his command with reluctance, 
 there were others who chose rather to en- 
 danger or forfeit their lives and property 
 than comply with it. It had not, however, 
 been two years in the hands of the Eng- 
 lish when, by a daring and desperate act 
 of courage, it was wrested from them. 
 
 A decree went forth from the English 
 governor of the Castle, commanding them 
 to bring into it, from time to time, all 
 necessary provisions for the use of the 
 garrison, for which they should receive 
 broad money in return ; for Somerset and 
 his chief ofiioers — tlie Lord Grey and 
 others — had caused it to be published, that 
 they considered the inhabitants of that 
 part of Scotland as the subjects of young 
 Edward, in common with themselves, and 
 not as a people with whom they were at 
 v,'ar, or from whom their soldiers might 
 collect provisions, and pay them with the 
 sword. 
 
 The English, indeed, paid liberally for 
 whatsoever they received ; and there was 
 policy in their so doing, for there were not 
 a few who preferred lucre to their country, 
 and the effigy of a prince upon a coin to 
 allegiance to their lawful monarch. But, 
 while such obeyed with alacrity the com- 
 mand of the governor of Fast Castle to 
 bring provisions to his garrison, there 
 
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 97 
 
 were many others who acquiesced in it re- 
 luctantly, and only obeyed from the con- 
 sciousness that disobedience would be the 
 price of their lives. 
 
 At this period, there dwelt in Colding- 
 ham a widow named Madge Gordon. She 
 was a tall and powerful woman, and her 
 years might be a little below fifty. Daily 
 she indulged in invectives against the 
 English, and spoke contemptuously of the 
 spirit of her countrymen, in submitting to 
 the mandate of the governor of Fast Cas- 
 tle. She had two cows and more than a 
 score of poultry ; but she declared that 
 she would spill the milk of the one upon 
 the ground every day, and throw the eggs 
 of the other over the cliffs, rather than 
 that either the one or the other should be 
 taken through the gates of the Castle 
 while an English garrison held it. 
 
 Often, therefore, as Madge beheld her 
 neighbors carrying their baskets on their 
 arms, their creels or sacks upon their 
 backs, or diiving their horses, laden with 
 provisions, towards the Castle, her wrath 
 would rise against them, and she was wont 
 to exclaim — 
 
 " O ye slaves ! — ye base loun-hearted 
 beasts o' burden ! — hoo lang will ye boo 
 before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the 
 foot that tramples on ye ? Throw doun 
 the provisions, and gang hame and bring 
 what they better deserve — for, if ye will 
 gie them bread, feed them on the point o' 
 yer faither's spears." 
 
 Some laughed as Madge spoke ; but her 
 words sank deep into the hearts of others ; 
 and a few answered — 
 
 " Ye are as daft as ever, Madge — but a 
 haverel woman's tongue is nae scandal, and 
 ye ken that the governor winna tak cog- 
 nizance o' ye." 
 
 " Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless 
 coofs, ye!" she replied; " gae tell him 
 that Madge Gordon defies him and a' his 
 men, as she despises you, and wad shake 
 the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane 
 and the other o' ye. Shame fa' ye, ye 
 degenerate, mongrel race ! for, if ye had 
 
 VOL. II. T 
 
 ae drop o' the bluid o' the men in yer 
 veins wha bled wi' Wallace and wi' Bruce, 
 before the sun gacd doun, the flao- o' 
 bonny Scotland wad wave frae the Castle 
 towers." 
 
 " Mother ! mother I" said an interest- 
 ing-looking girl of nineteen, who had come 
 to the door as the voice of Madge waxed 
 louder and more bitter — " dinna talk 
 foolishly — ye will bring us a' into trouble." 
 " Trouble ! ye silly lassie, ye," re- 
 joined Madge ; '* these are times indeed, 
 to talk o' the like o' us being brought 
 into trouble, when our puir bluiding coun- 
 try is groaning beneath the yoke o' an 
 enemy, and we see them harrying us not 
 only oot o' hoose and ha', but even 
 those that should be our protectors oot o' 
 their manhood ! See," added she, " do 
 ye see wha yon is, skulking as far as he 
 can get frae our door, wi' the weel-filled 
 sack upon his shouthers ? It is yer ain 
 dearie, Florence Wilson ! the betrayer 
 o' his country !— He's a coward, Janet, 
 like the rest o' them, and shall ne'r ca' 
 ye his wife while I hve to ca' ye daughter." 
 " mother !" added the maiden, in a 
 low and agitated voice — " what could poor 
 Florence do } It isna wi' a man body as 
 it is wi' the like o' us. If he didna do as 
 the lave do, he wad be informed against, 
 and he maun obey or die !" 
 
 " Let him die, then, as a man, as a 
 Scotchman !" said the stern Guidwife of 
 Coldingham. 
 
 Florence Wilson, of whom Madge had 
 spoken, was a young man of three or four 
 and twenty, and who then held, as his 
 fathers had done before him, sheep-lands 
 under the house of Home. He was one of 
 those who obeyed reluctantly the com- 
 mand of the governor to bring provi- 
 sions to the garrison ; and, until the 
 day on which Madge beheld him with the 
 sack upon his shoulders, he had resisted 
 doing so. But traitors had whispered the 
 tale of his stubbornness and discontent in 
 the Castle ; and, in order to save himself 
 and his flocks, he that day took a part of 
 
98 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 bis substance to tlie garrison. He had 
 long been the accepted of Janet Gordon ; 
 and the troubles of the times alone pre- 
 vented them, as the phrase went, from 
 " commencing house together." He well 
 knew the fierce and daring patriotism of 
 his intended mother-in-law, and he took a 
 circuitous route, in order to avoid passing 
 her door laden with a burden of provisions 
 for the enemy. But, as has been told, she 
 perceived him. 
 
 In the evening, Florence paid his night- 
 ly visit to Janet. 
 
 " Out ! out I ye traitor !" cried Madge, 
 as she beheld him crossing her threshold ; 
 " the shadow o' a coward shall ne'er fall 
 on my floor while I hae a hand to prevent 
 it." 
 
 " I'm nae coward, guidwife," retorted 
 Florence, indignantly. 
 
 " Nae coward !" she rejoined ; " what 
 are ye, then } Did not 1, this very day, 
 wi' my ain een, behold ye skulking and 
 carrying provisions to the enemy !" 
 
 *' Ye might," said Florence — " but ae 
 man canna tak a castle, nor drive frae it 
 five hundred enemies. Bide ye yet. 
 Foolhardy courage isna manhood ; and, 
 had mair prudence and caution, and less 
 confidence, been exercised by our army 
 last year, we wouldna hae this day to 
 mourn owre the battle o' Pinkie. I tell 
 ye, therefore, again, just bide ye yet." 
 
 " Come in, Florence," said Madge ; 
 " draw in a seat and sit doun, and tell 
 me what ye mean." 
 
 " Hoots, Florence," said Janet, in a 
 tone partaking of reproach and alarm, 
 " are ye gaun to be as daft as my mother ? 
 What matters it to us wha's king or wha's 
 queen } — it will be lang or either the ane 
 or the ither o' them do ony thing for us. 
 When ye see lords and gentry in the pay 
 o' England, and takin its part, what can 
 the like o' you or my mother do .^" 
 
 " Do ! ye chicken-hearted trembler at 
 yer ain shadow!" interrupted Madge — 
 " though somewhat past its best, I hae 
 an arm as strong and healthy as the best 
 
 o' them, and the blood that runs in it is 
 as guid as the proudest o' them." 
 
 Now, the maiden name of Madge was 
 Home ; and when her pride was touched, 
 it was her habit to run over the genealogi- 
 cal tree of her father's family, which she 
 could illustrate upon her fingers, begin- 
 ning, on all occasions — " I am, and so is 
 every Home in Berwickshire, descended 
 frae the Saxon kings o' England and the 
 first Earls o' Northumberland." Thus 
 did she run on, tracing their descent from 
 Crinan, chief of the Saxons in the north 
 of England, to Maldredus his son, who 
 married Algatha, daughter of Uthred, 
 prince of Northumberland, and grand- 
 daughter of Ethelrid, king of England ; 
 and from Maldredus to his son Cospatrick, 
 of whose power William the Conqueror 
 became jealous, and who was, therefore, 
 forced to fly into Scotland in the year 
 1071, where Malcolm Canmore bestowed 
 on him the manor of Dunbar, and many 
 baronies in Berwickshire. Thus did she 
 notice three other Cospatricks, famous 
 and mighty men in their day, each suc- 
 ceeding Cospatrick, the son of his pre- 
 decessor ; and after them a Waldreve, and 
 a Patrick, whose son William marrying 
 his cousin, he obtained with her the lands 
 of Home, and, assuming the name, they 
 became the founders of the clan. From 
 the offspring of the cousin, the male of 
 whom took the name of Sir William Home, 
 and from him through eleven other suc- 
 cessors, down to George, the fourth Lord 
 Home, who had fallen while repelling the 
 invasion of Somerset a few months before, 
 did Madge trace the roots, shoots, and 
 branches of her family, carrying it back 
 through a period of more than six hundred 
 years ; and she glowed, therefore, with 
 true aristocratic indio'nation at the remark 
 of her daughter to Florence — " What can 
 the like o' you or my mother do .^" And 
 she concluded her description of her ge- 
 ncological tree, by saying — " Talk noo the 
 like o' yer mother, hizzy !" 
 
 " Aweel, mother," said Janet mildly — 
 
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 99 
 
 " that may a' be ; but there is nae cause 
 for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, 
 for nae harm was meant. I only dinna 
 wish Florence to be putting his life in 
 jeopardy for neither end nor purpose. I'm 
 sure I wish that oor nobility would keep 
 to their bargain, and allow the queen, 
 though she is but a lassie yet, to be mar- 
 ried to young king Edward, and then we 
 might hae peace in the land, and ither 
 folk would be married as weel as them." 
 
 " We shall be married, Janet, my doo," 
 said Florence, gazing on her tenderly — 
 " only ye bide a wee." 
 
 Now, it must not be thought that Janet 
 loved her country less than did her mother 
 or her betrothed husband ; but, while the 
 land of blue mountains was dear to her 
 heart, Florence Wilson was yet more 
 dear ; and it was only because they were 
 associated with thoughts of him that they 
 became as a living thing, as a voice and as 
 music in her bosom. For, whence comes 
 our fondness for the woods, the mountains, 
 the rivers of our nativity, but from the 
 fond remembrances which their associa- 
 tions conjure up, and the visions which 
 they recall to the memory of those who 
 were dear to us, but who are now far from 
 us, or with the dead ? We may have 
 seen more stupendous mountains, nobler 
 rivers, and more stately woods — but they 
 were not ours ! They wore not the moun- 
 tains, the rivers, and the woods, by which 
 we played in childhood, formed first 
 friendships, or breathed love's tender 
 tale in the ear of her who was beautiful 
 as tue young moon or the evening star, 
 which hung over us like smiles of heaven ; 
 nor were they the mountains, the woods, 
 and the rivers, near which our kindred, 
 the flesh of our flesh, and the bone of our 
 bone, SLEEP ! But I digress. 
 
 " Tell me, Florence," said Madge, 
 ''what mean ye by 'bide a wee.'^' Is 
 there a concerted project amongst ony o' 
 ye, an' are ye waiting for an opportunity 
 to carry it into eiiect .?" 
 
 "No," answered he, " I canna say as 
 
 how we hae devised ony practicable scheme 
 o' owrecoming our oppressors as yet ; but 
 there are hundreds o' us ready to draw 
 our swords an' strike, on the slio;htest 
 chance o' success ofiering — and the chance 
 may come." 
 
 " An' amongst the hundreds o' hands 
 ye speak o'," returned Madge, " is there 
 no a single head that can plot an' devise a 
 plan to owrecome an' drive our persecutors 
 frae the Castle .?" 
 
 " I doot it — at least I hae ne'er heard 
 ony feasible-like plan proposed," said Flo- 
 rence, sorrowfully. 
 
 Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, 
 her chin resting on her hand. At length 
 she inquired — " When go ye back to sell 
 provisions to them again .^" 
 
 " This day week," was the reply. 
 
 " Then I shall tak my basket wi' eggs 
 an' butter, an' gae wi' ye," answered 
 Madge. 
 
 " O mother ! what are ye sayin .^" cried 
 Janet; " ye maun gang nae sic gate. I 
 ken yer temper wad flare up the moment 
 ye heard a word spoken against Scotland, 
 or a jibe broken on it ; an' there is nae 
 tellin what might be the consequence." 
 
 " Leave baith the action an' the conse- 
 quence to me, Janet, my woman," said 
 the patriotic mother ; " as I brew, I will 
 drink. But ye hae naething to fear ; I 
 will be as mim in the Castle as ye wad be 
 if^gieing Florence yer hand in the kirk." 
 
 The day on which the people were 
 again to carry provisions to the garrison 
 in Fast Castle arrived ; and, to the sur- 
 prise of every one, Madge, with a laden 
 basket on each arm, mingled amongst 
 them. Many marvelled, and the more 
 mercenary said — 
 
 " Ay, ay ! — Madge likes to turn the 
 penny as weel as ither folk. The English 
 will hae guid luck if ony o' them get a 
 bargain oot o'' her baskets," 
 
 She, therefore, went to the Castle, 
 bearing provisions with the rest of the 
 peasantry ; but, under pretence of dispos- 
 ing of her goods to the best advantage, 
 
100 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 she went througli and around the Castle, 
 and quitted it not until she had ascertained 
 where were its strongest, where its weakest 
 points of defence, and in what manner it 
 was guarded. 
 
 When, therefore, Florence Wilson again 
 visited her dwelling, she addressed him, 
 saying— 
 
 " Noo, I hae seen oor enemies i' the 
 heart o' their strength ; an' I hae a word 
 to say to ye that will try yer courage, an' 
 the courage o' the hunders o' guid men 
 an' true that ye hae spoken o' as only 
 bidin their time to strike. Noo, is it yer 
 opinion that, between Dunglass an' Eye- 
 mouth, ye could gather a hundred men 
 willing an' ready to draw the sword for 
 Scotland's right, an' to drive the invaders 
 frae Fast Castle, if a feasible plan were 
 laid before them .^" 
 
 '' I hae nae doot o't," replied he. 
 
 " Doots winna do," said she ; " will ye 
 try it .^" 
 
 " Yes," said he. 
 
 " Florence, ye shall be my son," added 
 she, taking his hand — " I see there is 
 spirit in ye yet." 
 
 " Mother," said Janet, earnestly, " what 
 dangerous errand is this ye wad set him 
 ■^pQ^ _? — what do ye think it could matter 
 to me wha was governor of Fast Castle, 
 if Florence should meet his death in the 
 attempt ?" 
 
 *' Wheesht ! ye silly lassie, ye," re- 
 plied her mother ; '^ had I no borne ye, I 
 wad hae said that ye hadna a drap o' my 
 bluid i' yer veins. What is't that ye 
 fear } If they'll abide by my counsel, 
 though it may try their courage, oor pur- 
 pose shall be accomplished wi' but little 
 scaith." 
 
 " Neither fret nor fear, dear," said 
 Florence, addressing Janet ; "I hae a 
 hand to defend my head, an' a guid sword 
 to guard baith." Then turning to her 
 mother, he added — " An' what may be 
 yer plan, that I may communicate it to 
 them that I ken to be zealous in our coun- 
 try's cause .?" 
 
 " Were I to tell ye noo," said she, 
 " that ye might communicate it to them, 
 before we were ready to put it in execu- 
 tion, the story wad spread frae the Tweed 
 to John o' Groat's, and frae St. Abb's to 
 the Solway, and our designs be prevented. 
 Na, lad, my scheme maun be laid before 
 a' the true men that can be gathered to- 
 gether, at the same moment, an' within a 
 few hours o' its being put in execution. 
 Do ye ken the dark copse aboon Hound- 
 wood, where there is a narrow and crook- 
 ed opening through the tangled trees, but 
 leading to a bit o' bonny green sward, 
 where a thousand men might encamp un- 
 observed .^" 
 
 " I do," answered Florence. 
 
 " And think ye that ye could assemble 
 the hundred men ye speak o' there, on 
 this night fortnight .?" 
 
 " I will try," replied he. 
 
 " Try, then," added she, " and I will 
 meet ye there before the new moon sink 
 behind the Lammermoors." 
 
 It was a few days after this that INIadge 
 was summoned to the village of Home, to 
 attend the funeral of a relative ; and while 
 she was yet there, the castle of her ances- 
 tors was daringly wrested from the hands 
 of the Protector's troops, by an aged 
 kinsman of her own, and a handful of 
 armed men. The gallant deed fired her 
 zeal more keenly, and strengthened her 
 resolution to wrest Fast Castle from the 
 hands of the invaders. She had been de- 
 tained at Home until the day on which 
 Florence Wilson was to assemble the 
 stout-hearted and trust-worthy in the copse 
 above Houndwood. Her kindred would 
 have detained her longer ; but she resisted 
 their entreaties and took leave of them, 
 saying that " her bit lassie, Janet, would 
 be growing irksome wi' being left alane, 
 an' that, at ony rate, she had business on 
 hand that couldna be delayed." 
 
 She proceeded direct to the place of 
 rendezvous, without going onwards to her 
 own house ; and, as she drew near the 
 narrow opening which led to the green 
 
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 101 
 
 Space in the centre of the dark copse, the 
 young moon was sinking behind the hills. 
 As she drew cautiously forward, she heard 
 the sound of yoices, which gradually be- 
 came audible. 
 
 " Well, Florence," said one, " what 
 are you waiting for ? Where is the grand 
 project that ye was to lay before us .'"' 
 
 " Florence," said others, " let us pro- 
 ceed to business. It is gaun to be very 
 dark, and ye will remember we have to 
 gang as far as the Peaths* the night yet." 
 
 Florence answered as one perplexed, 
 but in his wonted words — " Hae patience 
 — bide a wee ;" and added, in a sort of 
 soliloquy, but loud enough to be overheard 
 by his companions — " She promised to be 
 here before the moon gaed down upon the 
 Lammer m o or s . " 
 
 " Wha did? — ^wha promised to be 
 here .''" inquired half a dozen voices. 
 
 ^' I did I" cried Madge, proudly, as she 
 issued from the narrow aperture in the 
 •copse, and her tall figure was revealed by 
 the fading moonbeams. With a stately 
 step, she walked into the midst of them, 
 and gazed around as though the blood and 
 dignity of all the Homes had been centred 
 in her own person. 
 
 " Weel, Madge,'' inquired they, " and, 
 since ye are come, for what hae ye brought 
 us here .?" 
 
 " To try," added she, " whether, in- 
 heriting, as ye do, yer faithers' bluid, ye 
 also inherit their spirit — to see whether 
 ye hae the manhood to break the yoke o' 
 yer oppressors, or, if ye hae the courage 
 to follow the example which the men o' 
 Home set ye the other nicht." 
 
 " What have they done .?" inquired 
 Florence. 
 
 " Hearken," said she, " ane and a' o' 
 ye, and I will tell ye ; for, wi' my ain 
 een, I beheld a sicht that was as joyfu' to 
 me as the sight o' a sealed pardon to a 
 condemned criminal. Ye weel ken that, 
 for near twa years, the English have held 
 
 * The Pease Bridge. 
 
 Home Castle, just as they still hold Fast 
 Castle beside us. Now, it was the other 
 nicht, and just as the grey gloam was 
 darkening the towers, that an auld kins- 
 man o' mine, o' the name o' Home, scaled 
 the walls where they were highest, strong- 
 est, and least guarded ; thirty gallant 
 countrymen had accompanied him to their 
 foot, but, before they could follow his ex- 
 ample, he was perceived by a sentinel, 
 wha shouted out — ' To arms ! — ' to arms !' 
 ' Cower, lads, cower I' said my auld kins- 
 man, in a sort o' half whisper, to his fol- 
 lowers ; and he again descended the wall, 
 and they lay down, with their swords in 
 their hands, behind some whin bushes at the 
 foot o' the battlements. There was run- 
 ning, clanking, and shouting through the 
 castle for a time ; but, as naethinof like 
 the presence o' an enemy was either seen 
 or heard, the sentry that had raised the 
 alarm was laughed at, and some gaed back 
 to their beds, and others to their wine. 
 But, after about two hours, and when 
 a'thing was again quiet, my kinsman and 
 his followers climbed the walls, and, rush- 
 ing frae sentinel to sentinel, they owre- 
 cam ane after anither before they could 
 gie the alarm to the garrison in the cas- 
 tle ; and, bursting into it, shouted — ^ Hur- 
 ra ! — Scotland and Home for ever ! ' 
 Panic seized the garrison ; some started 
 fi:^e their sleep — others reeled frae their 
 cups — some grasped their arms — others 
 ran, they knew not where — but terror 
 struck the hearts o' ane and a' ; and still, 
 as the cry ' Scotland and Home for ever !' 
 rang frae room to room, and was echoed 
 through the lang high galleries, it seemed 
 like the shouting o' a thousand men ; and, 
 within ten minutes, every man in the gar- 
 rison was made prisoner or put to the 
 swordl And noo, neebors, what my kins- 
 man and a handfu' o' countrymen did for 
 the deliverance o' the Castle o' Home, 
 can ye not do for the Fast Castle, or will 
 ye not — and so drive every invader oot o' 
 Berwickshire ?" 
 
 '•'■ I dinna mean to say, Madge," an- 
 
102 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 swered one, who appeared to be the most 
 influential personage amongst her auditors 
 — " I dinna mean to sajbut that your re- 
 lation and his comrades hae performed a 
 most noble and gallant exploit — one that 
 renders them worthy o' being held in 
 everlasting remembrance by their coun- 
 trymen — and glad would I be if we could 
 this night do the same for Fast Castle. 
 But, woman, the thing is impossible ; the 
 cases are not parallel. It mightna be a 
 difficult matter to scale the highest part o' 
 the walls o' Home Castle, and ladders 
 could easily be got for that purpose ; but, 
 at Fast Castle, wi' the draw-bridge up, and 
 the dark, deep, terrible chasm between 
 you and the walls, like a bottomless gulf 
 between time and eternity ! — I say, again, 
 for my part, the thing is impossible. 
 Wha has strength o' head, even for a mo- 
 ment, to look doun frae the dark and dizzy 
 height o' the Wolf's Craig? — and wha 
 could think o' scaling it ? Even if it 
 had been possible, the stoutest heart that 
 ever beat in a bosom would, wi' the sick- 
 ening horror o' its owner's situation, be- 
 fore he was half-way up, be dead as the 
 rocks that would dash him to pieces as he 
 fell ! Na, na, I should hae been glad to 
 lend a helping and a willing hand to ony 
 practicable plan, but it would be madness 
 to throw away our lives where there 
 couldna be the slightest possibility o' suc- 
 cess." 
 
 ^' Listen," said Madge ; '' I ken what 
 is possible, and what is impossible, as 
 weel as ony o' ye. I meant that ye should 
 tak for example the dauntless spirit o' my 
 kinsman and the men o' Home, and ho 
 their manner o' entering the castle. But, 
 if yer hearts beat as their hearts did, 
 before this hour the morn's nicht the 
 invaders will be driven frae Fast Castle. 
 In the morning we are ordered to take 
 provisions to the garrison. I shall be 
 wi' ye, and in the front o' ye. But, 
 though my left arm carries a basket, be- 
 neath my cloak shall be hidden the bit 
 sword which my guidman wore in the wars 
 
 against King Harry ; and as I reach the 
 last sentinel — ' Now, lads ! now for Scot- 
 land and our Queen !' I shall cry ; and 
 wha dare follow my example .'" 
 
 " I dare ! I will !' said Florence Wil- 
 son, " and be at yer side to strike doun 
 the sentinel ; and sure am I that there isna 
 a man here that winna do or die, and drive 
 owre enemies frae the Castle, or leave his 
 body within its wa's for them to cast into 
 the sea. Every man o' us, the morn, will 
 enter the Castle wi' arms concealed aboot 
 him, and hae them ready to draw and 
 strike at a moment's warning. Ye canna 
 say freends, but what this is a feasible 
 plan, and ye winna be outdone in bravery 
 by a woman. Do ye agree to it .^" 
 
 There were cries of — " Yes, Florence, 
 yes ! — every man o' us !'' — and " It is an 
 excellent plan — it is only a pity that it 
 hadna been thocht o' suner," resounded 
 on all sides ; but " Better late than never," 
 said others. 
 
 " Come round me, then," said Madge ; 
 and they formed a circle around her. 
 " Ye swear now," she continued, " in the 
 presence o' Him who see'th through the 
 darkness o' night and searcheth the heart, 
 that nane o' ye will betray to oor enemies 
 what we hae this nicht determined on ; 
 but that every man o' ye will, the morn, 
 though at the price o' his life, do yer ut- 
 most to deliver owre groaning country frae 
 the yoke o' its invaders and opj)ressors ! 
 This ye swear .?" 
 
 And they bowed their heads around 
 her. 
 
 '^ Awa, then," added she, '' ilka man to 
 his ain hoose, and got his weapons in rea- 
 diness." And, leaving the copse, they 
 proceeded in various directions across the 
 desolate moor. But Florence Wilson ac- 
 companied Madge to her dwelling ; and, 
 as they went, she said — 
 
 " Florence, if ye act as weel the morn 
 as yc hae spoken this nicht, the morn shall 
 my dochter, Janet, be yer wife, wi' a fu' 
 purse for her portion that neither o' ye 
 kens aboot." 
 
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 103 
 
 He pressed her hand in the fulness of 
 his heart ; but she added — 
 
 " Na, na, Florence, I'm no a person 
 that cares aboot a fuss being made for the 
 sake o' gratitude — thank me "wi' deeds. 
 Remember I have said — a' depends on yer 
 conduct the morn.'' 
 
 When they entered the house, poor 
 Janet was weeping, because of her mo- 
 ther's absence, for she had expected her 
 for two days ; and her apprehensions were 
 not removed when she saw her in the 
 company of Florence, who. although her 
 destined husband, and who, though he had 
 long been in the habit of visiting her daily, 
 had called but once during her mother's 
 absence, and then he was sad and spoke 
 little. She saw that her parent had pre- 
 vailed on him to undertake some desperate 
 project, an,d she wept for his sake. 
 
 When he arose to depart, she rose also 
 and accompanied him to the door. 
 
 " Florence," said she, tenderly, " you 
 and my mother hae some secret between 
 ye, which ye wiuna communicate to me." 
 
 " A' that is a secret between us,^' said 
 he, " is, that she consents that the morn 
 ye shall be my winsome bride, if ye be 
 willing, as I'm sure ye are ; and that is 
 nae secret that I wad keep frae ye ; but I 
 didna wish to put ye aboot by mentionino- 
 it before her." 
 
 Janet blushed, and again added — 
 
 " But there is somethino; mair between 
 ye than that Florence, and why should ye 
 hide it frae me .^" 
 
 " Dear me, hinny !" said he, " I won- 
 der that ye should be sae apprehensive. 
 There is nae secret between yer mother 
 an' me that isna weel kenned to every ane 
 in the country-side. But just ye hae pa- 
 tience — bide a wee^— wait only till the 
 morn ; and, when I come to lead ye afore 
 the minister, I'll tell ye a'thiug then." 
 
 " An' wherefore no tell me the noo, 
 Florence .'" said she. "I am sure that 
 there is something brewing, an' a danger- 
 ous something too. Daur ye no trust me t 
 Ye may think me a weak an' silly crea- 
 
 ture ; but if I am not just so rash and 
 outspoken as my mother, try me if I haena 
 as stout a heart when there is necessity 
 for showing it." 
 
 " Weel, Janet, dear," said Florence, 
 " I winna conceal frae ye that there is 
 something brewing — but what that some- 
 thing is I am not at liberty to tell. I am 
 bound by an oath not to speak o't, and so 
 are a hunder others, as weel as me. But 
 the morn it will be in my power to tell ye 
 a'. Noo, just be ye contented, and get 
 ready for our wedding." 
 
 "And my mother kens," Janet was 
 proceeding to say, when her mother's 
 voice was heard crying from the house — 
 
 " Come in, Janet — what are ye doing 
 oot there in the cauld ? — ye hae been lang 
 enough wi' Florence the nicht — but the 
 morn's nicht ye may speak to him as lang 
 as ye like. Sae come in, lassie." 
 
 As the reader may suppose, Madge was 
 not one whose commands required to be 
 uttered twice ; and, with a troubled heart, 
 Janet bade Florence " Good nio-ht ," and 
 returned to the cottasre. 
 
 It was a little after sunrise on the fol- 
 lowing day, when a body of more than a 
 hundred peasantry, agreeably to the com- 
 mand of the governor, appeared before the 
 Castle, laden with provisions. Some of 
 them had the stores which they had brought 
 upon the backs of horses, but which they 
 placed upon their own shoulders as they 
 approached th'e bridge. Amongst them 
 were fishermen from Eyemouth and Cold- 
 ingham, shepherds from the hills with 
 slaughtered sheep, millers, and the culti- 
 vators of the patches of arable ground be- 
 yond the moor. With them, also, were 
 a few women carrying eggs, butter, cheese, 
 and poultry ; and at the head of the pro- 
 cession (for the narrowness of the draw- 
 bridge over the frightful chasm, beyond 
 which the Castle stood, caused the com- 
 pany to assume the form of a procession 
 as they entered the walls) was Madge 
 Gordon, and her intended son-in-law, 
 Florence Wilson. 
 
104 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down to 
 them ; the last of the burden-bearers had 
 crossed it ; and Madge had reached the 
 farthest sentinel, when suddenly dropping 
 her basket, out from beneath her grey 
 cloak gleamed the sword of her dead 
 husband ! 
 
 " Now, lads ! — now for Scotland and 
 our Queen !" she exclaimed, and as she 
 spoke, the sword in her hand pierced the 
 body of the sentinel. At the same instant 
 every man cast his burden to the ground, 
 a hundred hidden swords were revealed, 
 and every sentinel was overpowered. 
 
 " Forward, lads ! forward !" shouted 
 Madge. 
 
 " Forward !" cried Florence Wilson, 
 with his sword in his hand, leading the 
 way. They rushed into the interior of 
 the Castle ; they divided into bands. 
 Some placed themselves before the arsenal 
 where arms were kept, while others rushed 
 from room to room, making prisoners of 
 those of the garrison who yielded willingly, 
 and showing no quarter to those who re- 
 sisted. Many sought safety in flight, some 
 flying half-naked, aroused from morning 
 dreams after a night's carouse, and almost 
 all fled without weapons of defence. The 
 effect upon the garrison was as if a thun- 
 derbolt had burst in the midst of them. 
 Within half an hour. Fast Castle was in 
 the hands of the peasantry, and the entire 
 soldiery who had defended it had either 
 fled, were slain, or made prisoners. 
 
 Besides striking the flrst blow, Madge 
 had not permitted the sword of her late 
 husband to remain idle in her hands dur- 
 ing the conflict. And, as the conquerors 
 gathered round Florence Wilson, to ac- 
 knowledge to him that to his counsel, 
 presence of mind, and courage, as their 
 leader, in the midst of the confusion that 
 prevailed, they owed their victory, and 
 the deliverance of the east of Berwickshire 
 from its invaders, Madge pressed forward, 
 and, presenting him her husband's sword, 
 said — 
 
 " Tak this, my son, and keep it — it was 
 
 the sword o' a brave man, and to a brave 
 man I gie it — and this night shall ye be 
 my son indeed." 
 
 " Thank ye, mother mother !" said 
 
 Florence. And as he spoke a faint smile 
 crossed his features. 
 
 But scarce had he taken the sword in 
 his hand, ere a voice was heard, crying — 
 
 " Where is he } — where shall I find 
 him ? — does he live t — where is my mo- 
 ther .?" 
 
 " Here, love ! — here ! It is my Janet !" 
 cried Florence ; but his voice seemed to 
 fail him as he spoke. 
 
 ^' Come here, my bairn," cried her 
 mother, " and in the presence o' these 
 witnesses receive a hand that ye may be 
 proud o'." 
 
 As part of the garrison fled through 
 Coldingham, Janet had heard of the sur- 
 prise by which the Castle had been taken, 
 and ran towards it to gather tidings of her 
 mother and affianced husband ; for she 
 now knew the secret which they would not 
 reveal to her. 
 
 As she rushed forward, the crowd that 
 surrounded Florence gave way, and, as 
 he moved forward to meet her, it was ob- 
 served that he shook or staggered as he 
 went ; but it was thought no more of ; and 
 when she fell upon his bosom, and her 
 mother took their hands and pressed them 
 together, the multitude burst into a shout 
 and blessed them. He strove to speak — 
 he muttered the word "Janet !" but his 
 arms fell from her neck, and he sank as 
 lifeless on the ground. 
 
 " Florence ! my Florence ! — he is 
 wounded — murdered !" cried the maiden, 
 and she flung herself beside him on the 
 ground. 
 
 Madge and the spectators endeavored 
 to raise him ; but his eyes were closed ; 
 and, as he gasped, they with difficulty 
 could understand the words he strove to 
 utter — " Water — water !" 
 
 He had, indeed, been wounded — mor- 
 tally wounded — but he spoke not of it. 
 They raised him in their arms and carried 
 
THE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES. 
 
 105 
 
 him to an apartment in the Castle ; hut, 
 ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence 
 Wilson had jQed. 
 
 Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. 
 She now cried — " Florence ! — Florence ! 
 — we shall be married to-night ! — yes ! — 
 yes ! — I have everything ready !'' And 
 again she spoke bitter words to her mother, 
 and said that she had murdered her Flo- 
 rence. The spectators lifted her from his 
 body, and Madge stood as one on whom 
 affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had 
 fallen as a palsy, depriving her of speech 
 and action. 
 
 " My poor bereaved bairn !" she at 
 length exclaimed ; and she took her daugh- 
 ter in her arms and kissed her — " ye hae 
 indeed cause to mourn, for Florence was a 
 noble lad ! — but, oh, dinna say it was my 
 
 doing, hinny ! — dinna wyte yer mother ! 
 — will ye no, Janet ? It is a great com- 
 fort that Florence has died like a hero." 
 
 But Janet never was herself again. She 
 became, as their neighbors said, a poor, 
 melancholy, maundering creature, going 
 about talking of her Florence and the 
 surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending 
 her story — " But I maun awa hame and 
 get ready, for Florence and I are to be 
 married the nicht." 
 
 Madge followed her, mourning, where- 
 soever she went, bearing with and soothing 
 all her humors. But she had not long to 
 bear them ; for, within two years, Janet 
 was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, 
 in Coldingham kirkyard ; and, before ano- 
 ther winter howled over their peaceful 
 graves, Madge lay at rest beside them. 
 
 THE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES. 
 
 " Still caring-, despairing, 
 Must be my bitter doom ; 
 My woes here shall close ne'er 
 
 But with the closing tomh.''— Burns. 
 
 I RESIDED, some years ago, in the island 
 of Tyree, which is one of the most western 
 of the Hebrides ; and, in the course of my 
 business, had often occasion to cross by 
 the base of Ben Chinevarah, whose rugged 
 and sterile appearance impresses the 
 mind with a sickening sadness. The nar- 
 row footpath sometimes dives into the 
 deep and sullen gloom of the mountain 
 glen, whose silence is unbroken, save by 
 the torrent's red rush, and again winds 
 along the edge of the steep precipice, 
 among the loose rocks that have been hurl- 
 ed from their beds aloft by the giant ef- 
 forts of time, where the least false step 
 would precipitate the unwary traveller in- 
 to the abyss below. There no cheering 
 sound of mirth was ever heard, the blythe 
 
 whistle of the ploughman never swelled 
 upon its echoes, nor often did the reapers' 
 song disturb its gloomy silence. The ear 
 is assailed, on the one hand, by the dis- 
 cordant and dismal notes of the screech- 
 owl ; and, on the other, by the angi-y roar 
 of the waves that beat, with ceaseless lash, 
 the broken shore. A small hut now and 
 then bursts upon the view, raising its low- 
 ly roof beneath the shelter of the mountain 
 rock, and adds to the cheerlessness of the 
 scene. One of those small cottages often 
 attracted my notice, by its external neat- 
 ness, and the laborious industry by which 
 a small garden had been formed around 
 the dwelling ; and, by degrees, I ingrati- 
 ated myself into the good gjraces of its 
 owner, who, I found, by his knowledge 
 
106 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 and conversation, was of a different cast 
 from the dwellers around him. I knew, 
 hy his accent, that he was a foreigner ; 
 and, feeling an interest in him, I often 
 endeavored to gain some account from 
 him of the early part of his life ; but when 
 the subject was hinted at, he at once 
 changed the conversation. 
 
 Having occasion, last summer, to spend 
 some days at the house of a friend in Ar- 
 gyleshire, I availed myself of this oppor- 
 tunity to visit my old acquaintance at 
 Tyree. I found him stretched on the bed 
 of sickness, and fast verging towards his 
 end. When last I had seen him, his ap- 
 pearance, though infirm, evinced but few 
 signs of physical decay ; and, though the 
 Storms of fourscore winters had blown over 
 him, still his eye sparkled with animation, 
 and his raven locks retained the fresh and 
 jetty color of the native of " Italia's sun- 
 ny clime." But now, how changed the 
 appearance. His eyeballs were dim, deep 
 sunken in their sockets ; a few scattered 
 gray hairs waved carelessly over his finely 
 arched eyebrows ; and his forehead and 
 cheeks were deeply furrowed with the 
 traces of sickness and secret wo. When 
 I entered the lowly dwelling, he raised his 
 lack lustre eyes, and stretched forth his 
 hand to meet my grasp. 
 
 " And is heaven yet so kind," said he, 
 raising his wasted hand in thanks to the 
 Disposer of all Good, " as to send one 
 pitying friend to soothe my dreary and de- 
 parting moments. Ah ! sir, the hand of 
 the grim tyrant is laid heavily upon me, 
 and I must soon appear in the presence of 
 an unoffended Deity. If you knew how 
 awful are the feelings of a mind loaded 
 with iniquity, of a soul immersed in guilt, 
 when the last moment is approaching that 
 separates us from mortality, and the mis- 
 deeds of a wickedlife stand in ghastly array, 
 adding stings to an already seared con- 
 science, you would shrink at what you now 
 deem the gay dreams of youthful frailty, 
 and shun the delusive and seducing snares 
 of a wretched world." 
 
 Pointino; to a block of wood alongside 
 his pallet bed, he desired me to be seated, 
 and, after drying the tear of sorrow from 
 his swollen eye, he thus proceeded : — 
 " Often, in those moments when the sweet 
 beams of health were mine, have you de- 
 sired a recital of the events of my past 
 life ; but a feeling of shame withheld me 
 from the task. Now, when I have nothing 
 to fear but death and the dread hereafter, 
 if you will have the patience to hear me, 
 I will briefly unfold to you the causes 
 which reduced me from a state of affluence 
 to become a fugitive amid the rugged rocks 
 and the inclement skies of a foreign land." 
 I assented, and he went on with his story. 
 " My name," said he, ''in the more 
 fortunate years of my life, was Alphonsus ; 
 and the city of Venice gave me birth. I 
 was the only child of an opulent citizen ; 
 and need scarcely inform you that no 
 restraint was laid upon my inclinations 
 when a child ; and the dawn of manhood 
 beheld me plunged amid every intempe- 
 rance which that luxuiious city then afford- 
 ed. Money was plentifully supplied me 
 by my parents to support my extravagan- 
 ces ; and I sought after happiness among 
 the romids of pleasure and the gay circles 
 of society ; but I only met with desires 
 ungratified, hopes often frustrated, and 
 wishes never satisfied, I had a friend. 
 He was called Theodore. I loved him as 
 dearly as a selfish being like myself could 
 love any one. He shared in all my 
 pleasures. 
 
 " An amorous, jealous, and revengeful 
 disposition is commonly laid to the share 
 of the Italians ; and, with sorrow I con- 
 fess, those formed the principal ingredients 
 of my character. I had reached my twen- 
 tieth year of thoughtlessness and folly, 
 when one night at the opera, a young lady, 
 in an opposite box, attracted my attention ; 
 and my eyes were insensibly riveted upon 
 the beauteous figure. I need not tell you 
 that she was beautiful — she was loveliness 
 itself. I will not trespass on your time 
 in describing the new and pleasing sensa- 
 
THE RECLtrSE OF THE HEBRIDES. 
 
 107 
 
 tioas that arose in my bosom ; you Iiave 
 trod the magic paths of pleasure, and 
 bowed to the charms of beauty ; they are 
 not unknown to you. 
 
 '' 1 felt tliat all my libertine pursuits 
 had only been the shadows of pleasure ; 
 and from that moment 1 determined to 
 abandon them, and fix my love on her 
 alone. We became acquainted, and 1 
 found that she was as worthy of the purest 
 love as my fond wishes desired. She was 
 the only child of Count Rudolpho. And, 
 for the space of three months, I was a con- 
 stant visitor at her father's palazzo. In 
 due time I pleaded the force of my love. 
 But, gods ! what were the sensations of 
 my soul, when the tear started from her 
 eye of beauty, and the dreadful sentence 
 burst upon my ear — ' I am the bride of 
 Theodore !' 
 
 *' I burst from her presence with a pal- 
 pitating heart, and returned homewards 
 agitated by the conflicting passions of 
 despair and revenge. I drew my sword 
 from its sheath, and promised the blood of 
 Theodore, of the friend of my bosom to 
 its point. The steel trembled in my 
 grasp as the vow fell from my lips, and my 
 heart -recoiled at the idea of shedding 
 blood ; but the still small voice was an un- 
 equal match with the baneful principles of 
 a corrupted soul." 
 
 The Recluse stopped, and the loud sobs 
 of sorrow and repentance alone burst upon 
 the gloomy silence of the scene. The 
 hectic flush of fever played and wantoned 
 across his pallid features, as if it seemed 
 to exult in the weakness of mortality, and 
 delio'ht in the loveliness of its own soul- 
 loathed ravages. The tears dropped large 
 and plentiful from his eyes, and his spirit 
 seemed bended and broken with the rack- 
 ins; remembrance. I bent over the wast- 
 ed form of the wretched penitent, and, 
 while I poured the voice of comfort in his 
 ear, and wiped the tears from his eyes, his 
 soul resumed its wonted firmness, and even 
 a smile beamed upon his blanched lips, as 
 he grasped my hand and pressed it to his 
 
 bosom in silence and with thankful- 
 ness. 
 
 "Behold!" said he, drawing an old 
 sword from beneath the side of his misera- 
 ble straw pallet ; " behold this steel, red- 
 rusted with the blood of Theodore, from 
 which the bitter tears of sixty long winters 
 have been unable to efface the stain. Par- 
 don the feelings of an infirm old man. My 
 soul weeps blood at the remembrance. 
 
 " I pitched upon the bridal eve of Theo- 
 dore for that of his death, and the seizure 
 of his bride ; and hired the leader of a 
 band of ruffians to assist me in the scheme. 
 The fatal night, so big with horror, at 
 last arrived. The sun sank sullenly into 
 the shades of the west, and his departing 
 gleams glanced redly and angrily upon 
 me. The raven wings of early night fell 
 upon Venice ; and I stepped into my gon- 
 dola, with my hired followers. We set 
 forward upon our errand. The palazzo 
 of Count Albert was soon gained. Busy 
 nature waxed calm and hushed ; the arti- 
 zan had retired to the sweets of his lowly 
 but happy cottage ; the convent bell had 
 tolled, solemn and slow, the vesper knell ; 
 and then 
 
 " uprose the yellow moon," 
 silvering the rippling waters of the canals, 
 and glancing its beams upon the glittering 
 palaces of Venice. It was a lovely night ; 
 but my soul ill brooked the calm grandeur 
 of the scene. 
 
 " By the treachery of a servant, my 
 comrades were admitted into Count Ru- 
 dolpho's grounds, whilst I attended the 
 nuptial rites with the well-dissembled face 
 of friendship. Joy was dancing in every 
 eye but mine. My hand trembled at times 
 on the hilt of my poniard, and I awaited 
 the favorable moment with a degree of 
 
 a 
 
 impatience bordering on frenzy. Many a 
 fair maid was there tripping amid the joy- 
 ous throng, whose beauty might have 
 warmed the frigid heart of an anchorite ; 
 but my eyes and mind were upon the dear, 
 dear Violetta : she was lovelier than ever^ 
 but — she was the spouse of Theodore. 
 
108 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ^' The garden of the Count was remark- 
 ably beautiful, and the trees in it had 
 been grandly festooned with variegated 
 lamps on the present occasion. The night 
 was pleasant and calm, and the youthful 
 couple retired from the crowded saloon to 
 the garden for a few minutes to enjoy the 
 freshness of nature. I silently followed, 
 tinperceived, till they seated themselves 
 in an arbor, whose beauty was unworthy 
 of a villain's tread. Then suddenly I pre- 
 sented myself at the entrance ; and the 
 unsuspicious Theodore rose to embrace 
 me. How shall I give utterance to the 
 rest ? My friend rose to embrace me ; 
 and I drew my poniard, and was about to 
 plunge it into his bosom, when Violetta, 
 whose attention this action had not es- 
 caped rushed between us to stay my hand. 
 Horror ! her heart received the blow I had 
 intended for her husband. She uttered a 
 piercing cry, and fell, a bleeding corpse, 
 •at my feet. 
 
 " The sound attracted the attention of 
 my ruffianly associates, who were ready at 
 hand to carry off the bride, and the}'- hur- 
 ried to the spot. Theodore at first sur- 
 prised and terror-stricken, now roused 
 himself to energy. With the fury of a | 
 maniac, he rushed upon me and felled me 
 senseless to the earth. How long I lay in 
 this situation, I know not ; but when my 
 senses returned, the palazzo was in flames, 
 and the clashing of swords and the groans 
 of the wounded sounded horribly in my 
 ears. And this was my doing. I had 
 been the means of introducing into Count 
 Rudolpho's grounds a band of despera- 
 does, to whom bloodshed was familiar ; 
 and I doubted not that they were at their 
 work of blood and rapine. I repented of 
 the deed, but it was too late. 
 
 " The murdered Violetta lay on the 
 ground at a short distance from me ; the 
 moonbeams played full upon her ghastly 
 and distorted features ; and her robes, 
 her bridal robes, were deeply stained with 
 blood. Her pulse had long since ceased 
 to beat, and she felt cold to the touch. 
 
 ' Resolved that no profane hand should 
 consign to the earth her blessed remains, 
 I threw the body across my shoulder, and 
 fled with it from the garden. I felt not 
 the weight of the burden, for excitement 
 made me * hardy as the Nemean lion's 
 nerve.' I soon reached the canal, leapt 
 into my gondola with my precious bur- 
 ben, and shortly afterwards, gained my 
 father's palace. Ere the moon set, I had 
 dug a deep grave in his garden, in which 
 I buried her on whom 1 had doated, be- 
 dewing the earth with my tears as I pro- 
 ceeded in my work. 
 
 "It was at length completed ; and, with 
 the morning's dawn, I fled from Venice. 
 Despair added wings to my flight, and 
 the land of France received me in her fos- 
 tering arms. I have, since that time, 
 wandered in many a clime to wear away 
 my grief, but in vain. I have fought un- 
 der the banner of your king ; and, though 
 my arm was never palsied in the day of 
 battle, death has been denied me. I now 
 lie here, aged and forlorn. The hand of 
 death is heavy on me, and chilly tremors 
 are creeping over my exhausted frame. 
 The just decrees of God have denied me 
 even a friend to close my weary eyes ; and 
 my dust must mingle with the dust of 
 strangers, far, far from the sepulchre of 
 my fathers, and the home of my child- 
 hood." 
 
 After a short pause, the Recluse con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 " Here, sir," said he, " take this sword 
 — it has been the constant companion of 
 my travels — its blade is unsullied by ig- 
 noble blood ; and when you look upon it, 
 after the o-rave receives the wretched Al- 
 phonsus, it may convey a lesson that 
 volumes could not inculcate." 
 
 I received the sword from his hand, 
 which was trembling and cold. He turn- 
 ed his face from me ; and before I had 
 time to speak, a deep groan announced 
 his departure to the mansions of another 
 world. I called the inmates of the ad- 
 joining cottage, who took charge of the 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 109 
 
 body ; and I left the spot with a feeling 
 which words cannot express, but which 
 will be understood by those who look with 
 
 the eye of pity upon the errors of a fel- 
 low-mortal. 
 
 THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Lives there a man who calls his heart his own, 
 Can look on ripening beauty's breathing eye — 
 
 The breast of snow — love's altar and its throne — 
 The lips round which sweet smiles and graces fly — 
 
 The more than sculptured elegance — the tone 
 Of loveliness and health, whose vermil dye 
 
 Is with the early lily blent, on cheeks 
 
 Whose very blush of love and conquest speaks. 
 
 Say, is there one on these can fondly gaze, 
 
 Nor feel his heart turn rebel to his will ; 
 Till all that charmed is changed — the voice of praise — 
 
 The smile of friends — his haunts, hy wood or hill — 
 The sports, the joys, the all of early days — 
 
 Have lost their music, and he gazeth still 
 Upon the fair enchantress — changer — all I 
 
 Till she, too, changed, shall on his bosom fall. 
 
 BuRNPATH was a small fishing village in 
 the South of Scotland, of which, many 
 years ago, a Mr. Robertson was minister. 
 He had a daughter of great beauty, whose 
 name was Mary. It was October, and 
 there had been a wreck upon the coast 
 during the night. By daybreak, old and 
 young were upon the beach. Amongst 
 them was Mary Robertson. She came 
 upon the seeming lifeless body of a youth, 
 who, by his dress, appeared to be an 
 officer. She bent over him. She fancied 
 there was still warmth at his heart. She 
 called for help, and bearing him to her 
 father's house, within an hour animation 
 was restored. 
 
 On the following morning, Mr. Robert- 
 son led into the breakfast parlor, a noble- 
 looking young midshipman. Youthful 
 enthusiasm, sadness, and gratitude, ap- 
 peared blended on his features. His eyes 
 were of a deep and piercing black ; at first 
 sight, almost unpleasantly so, seeming to 
 search the very thoughts of those on 
 
 whom he looked. But his countenance 
 was animated and expressive ; and his 
 bright brown hair fell carelessly, in thick 
 natural curls, over a broad and open brow. 
 His stature somewhat exceeded the middle 
 size ; and his person, though not inelegant, 
 was rather robust than handsome ; while 
 his age could not exceed five and twenty. 
 Mutual concrratulations were exchano;ed : 
 and he had been seated but a few minutes, 
 when Mary placed a small pocket Bible in 
 his hands. He glanced at her for a mo- 
 ment, almost unmeaningly ; and opened 
 it with a look of perplexed curiosity. 
 When the Psalm commenced, he seemed 
 surprised and startled at the affinity it and 
 the chapter which was read by Mary bore 
 to his own situation. He appeared puz- 
 zled, confounded, interested ; and, when 
 they knelt in prayer, he looked round in 
 embarrassment, as one who wist not what 
 to do. He was evidently a stranger ta 
 such things. Of the prayer, he knew not 
 what to think. He was at once pleased, 
 overpowered, and offended. 
 
 " It may be all very good," said he to 
 himself; "but it is scarce civil to call a 
 gentleman a sinner to his face ! He is 
 very anxious about my spiritual state to- 
 day, but my body might have perished for 
 him yesterday, had not that glorious crea- 
 ture exerted herself." 
 
 While he thus thought, he gazed ob- 
 liquely on her kneeling form, his head 
 resting on his hand, with his face turned 
 toward the chair where she knelt, till his 
 gaze became riveted — his thoughts ab- 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 sorbecl ; and, as she, with her father, rose, 
 he started to his feet, and, almost uncon- 
 scious of what had passed, looked round 
 in ill-disguised bewilderment. 
 
 Leaving him, however, to overcome his 
 confusion, we shall introduce our readers 
 to what we know of his family. 
 
 Henry Walton — for so, in future, we 
 shall designate him — was the only son of 
 Sir Robert Walton, in the county of 
 Devon. Sir Robert was proud of his son, 
 and loved him second only to his bottle, 
 his chestnut hunter, and his hounds ; or, 
 rather, he loved them less, but thought of 
 them more. 
 
 " Bravo ! Hal is father's better," said 
 he; " there goes a chip of the old block !" 
 as Henry cleared a five-barred gate, or 
 brought down a pigeon on the wing with a 
 bullet. Not that he would have risen a 
 shade in the esteem of the Baronet, had 
 he carried in his head the wisdom of 
 Greece and the eloquence of Rome. All 
 oratory was alike to him save the " sound 
 of the bugle-horn." Henry, however, had 
 other qualifications, which were a theme 
 of continued praise with his father. He 
 was a keen sportsman — a dead shot ; and 
 when but nineteen, disguised as a coun- 
 tryman, he had attended the annual " re- 
 vel" at Ashburton, where his father pre- 
 sided as umpire, and was to bestow five 
 guineas, from his own purse, on the victor 
 wrestler. Having inserted a fictitious 
 name upon the lists, he entered the ring, 
 and alternately threw his three brawny 
 opponents two fair back-falls each, amidst 
 the deafening shouts of all the strong men 
 in Devonshire. He now approached, 
 hanging his head, toward his father, to 
 receive the extended reward. 
 
 "Swinge ! look up, man!" vociferated 
 Sir Robert in the excess of his admiration, 
 accompanying the request with a hearty 
 slap on the shoulder •, " Swinge ! I say, 
 look up, man, for thou'st a good mi !" 
 
 Henry bowed, and, without speaking, 
 retired with the purse ; and, to increase 
 the astonishment of the spectators, divided 
 
 its contents among the three chopfallen 
 and, in truth, not over-pleasant-looking 
 antagonists he had vanquished. At this 
 act of generosity, the Devonians shouted 
 and bellowed forth their lusty and reiter- 
 ated applause, as if determined to shake 
 down the sun from the heavens, to crown 
 the brows of the conqueror. Sir Robert 
 shouted louder than the loudest — rushed 
 into the ring — grasped the hand of the 
 victor, and shook it with an honest en- 
 thusiasm that would have relieved a more 
 delicate hand from the future trouble of 
 wearing fingers. 
 
 " Faith, and dang it !" said he, " and 
 thou art a good un. Now, for that same, 
 instead of five guineas, here are ten for 
 thee. But why, man, look up, and let us 
 see thy face, and pull off thy night-cap." 
 
 So saying, he without ceremony unfast- 
 ened a napkin Henry had bound around 
 his head, to aid his concealment. 
 
 " Swinge ! what I" shouted Sir Robert 
 — " my own son — my own Hal ! father's 
 better !— Lord ! O Lord !" 
 
 He danced in the extreme of ecstacy, 
 and hugged him furiously to his heart, till 
 he who had overthrown three, fell beneath 
 the muscular embrace of his father. 
 
 Henry's grandfather, after living forty 
 years in the unnatural and unsocial state 
 by some called single blessedness, and re- 
 maining proof against the shafts of blind 
 gods and bright-eyed divinities, found his 
 philosophy disturbed by the laughing face, 
 the exquisite neck, and the well-rounded 
 arm of a pretty haymaker, who was a par- 
 ish apprentice to one of his own tenants. 
 Blue eyes, auburn locks, and a waist sym- 
 metry itself (for it, too, had arrested the 
 admiration of the bachelor), are not to be 
 trifled with in a hay-field, in a glowing day 
 in June, when the melting fragrance 
 smells to heaven, the lark pours down the 
 full tide of melody and affection over the 
 nest of his delicfhted and listenins: mate, 
 and the very butterflies pursue each other, 
 flutter, shake their downy wings, and wan- 
 ton love in the dreamy air ! If a bachelor 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 will go abroad on sucli a day, lie should 
 lock up his heart in his writing-desk. But 
 our old baronet, never having made the 
 discovery that he was in possession of one, 
 overlooked this precaution — 
 
 " Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again ;" 
 
 till the whole group of curtsying hay- 
 makers burst into a titter at the confusion 
 of his Honor. He shortly found means 
 to declare his passion, though it is true he 
 never dreamed of marriage : but the fair 
 maiden dreamed of nothing else ; and, to 
 the astonishment of her wealthy lover, 
 would hear of nothing else. Therefore, 
 Susan Prescott became Lady Walton, and, 
 in due time, the mother of Sir Robert. 
 
 Within two years after their marriage, 
 the Baronet dropped from his chair, while 
 drawing the cork of his third bottle, in a 
 fit — which Lady Walton could not re- 
 member the name of ! She wept, like a 
 dutiful widow, over her husband ; who, 
 having a constitutional terror of the 
 thought of death (though by no means a 
 coward), had ever banished everything 
 that tended to remind him of mortality ; 
 and thereby dying without a will, left the 
 future guardianship and education of Sir 
 Robert to his mother. She had, indeed. 
 Lad fifty tutors, as she said, superintend- 
 ing the studies of the young heir of the 
 Priory ; for none staid beyond a month, 
 and she assured them — " She would allow 
 no such hungry nothings to contradict her 
 Bobby, who was a good scholar, and mo- 
 ther's darling." 
 
 For the little, therefore, that Sir Robert 
 did know, he was more indebted to natu- 
 ral quickness, and the occasional lessons 
 of the vicar, who forced them upon him in 
 defiance of his mother's displeasure, than 
 to his fifty tutors. 
 
 On the year after his coming of age, in 
 despite of the tears and upbraidings of 
 Lady Walton, Sir Robert ordered his tra- 
 velling carriage, his double-barreled fowl- 
 
 ing-piece, and all the et ceteras of a 
 sporting campaign ; and left the " garden 
 and watering-place of England" (as its 
 inhabitants call it, and with some cause), 
 for a shooting excursion on the moors of 
 Scotland. Against this journey his mother 
 wept, prayed, and protested ; but her 
 tears, her entreaties, and protestations, 
 were lost upon her son ; who, after seeing 
 his pack properly packed up, sprang into 
 his carriage, whistling 
 
 " Over the hills and far awa," 
 
 with a suddenness and a weight that made 
 the wheels creak and the horses stagger ; 
 while her Ladyship kept thrusting beneath 
 his feet bundles of stockings, flannels, and 
 dreadnoughts, sufficient for a Greenland 
 voyage, or a North West passage — " Quite 
 certain," as she said, poor soul, and sob- 
 bing as she said it, while she scrambled up 
 to the carriage for another parting kiss, 
 that her dear Bobby would be frozen to 
 death, that he would, in that cold, out- 
 landish country ! But they could expect 
 no better, who would not take a mother's 
 advice." 
 
 '' Good-by, mother !" cried Sir Robert. 
 Crack went the whip-^whir went the 
 wheels — the horses tossed their heads — 
 the hounds raised a farewell note — and 
 away went the baronet, with a sound heart 
 and light, to the hills of "bonny Scot- 
 land." 
 
 The shooting season had but commenc- 
 ed. Sir Robert had been but a few days 
 in the Highlands, when he became ac- 
 quainted with a brother sportsman. Major 
 Cameron was a hardy, weather-beaten 
 veteran, who had only his half -pay to live 
 upon, with his honest scars, and the blood 
 of Lochiels in his veins, to boast of. He 
 had been distinguished as a fearless and 
 able officer, was possessed of considerable 
 shrewdness, and his knowledge, if not deep, 
 was general. He had had a dream of 
 ambition in his youth ; but a Majority, 
 with permission to retire upon half-pay 
 — and, more than these, the death of a 
 
112 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 beloved wife, with the education and care 
 of an only daughter — dispelled the en- 
 chantment. He now rented a beautiful 
 cottage, and a few surrounding acres, in 
 the neififhborhood of Inverness. 
 
 Shortly after their acquaintance, the 
 Major — though certainly not strucii with 
 the attainments of the young baronet, yet 
 pleased with his constant good humor, his 
 love of sport, and, perhaps (but we can't 
 tell) , not overlooking his fortune and his 
 own daughter — invited him to his house. 
 The simple elegance of Miss Cameron's 
 household startled Sir Robert. She, too, 
 stood before him in all the glory of young 
 womanhood. To say that she was beau- 
 tiful, is to say the least that we could say. 
 Her person was tall, graceful, and com- 
 manding ; and her mind adorned, not mere- 
 ly with ornamental, but domestic accom- 
 plishments. It is true her father, though 
 a good soldier, a good citizen, and an 
 indulgent parent, had no fixed or guiding 
 principle of religion. He believed himself 
 a Christian ; but he was one of those who 
 do not make their religion the rule of their 
 life ; and under such a teacher, while she 
 received a high sense of honor and a pure 
 morality, her religion, like that of many 
 others, consisted in attending the church, 
 and finished with the service. 
 
 To think of a warm-hearted, unsophisti- 
 cated young fellow, like Sir Robert, hold- 
 ing out against the artillery of her eyes for 
 a week, were as impossible as to suspend 
 the earth from a packthread ! He looked 
 — that is to say, he looked as stupid — as 
 people generally do when the eyes have to 
 perform the ofl&ce of the tongue. Within 
 a fortnight, the young sportsman bade 
 good-bye to the moors. His game lay in 
 the Major's cottage. His blood rose to a 
 fever heat without Lady Walton's flannels. 
 Twenty times in the twenty-four hours he 
 sighed, looked in her face, and said, " Miss 
 Cameron!" looked to the ground again, 
 and said no more. And when, at length, 
 the Major rallied him on letting the shoot- 
 ing season slip — " Why, dang it, d'ye see, 
 
 Major," said he, '' I came here to shoot, 
 and I've got shot myself ! So, if thou art 
 my friend, now or never ask Miss Came- 
 ron." 
 
 The Major had already reasoned that he 
 must die and leave his daughter unprovided 
 for, and an orphan. The thought cut him 
 to the heart. It had often cost him tears. 
 The baronet was rather ignorant, but he 
 was good-natured. It was evident he 
 loved his daughter — she might instruct 
 him. He was rich ; he had influence — 
 the Major might yet obtain a regiment ! 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the veteran to him- 
 self, " she must — Jess shall marry the 
 Englishman." 
 
 Miss Jess Cameron was sufficiently 
 aware of the state of her lover's heart, not 
 to be surprised by her father's announce- 
 ment of his wishes ; and, having weighed 
 the matter much in the same manner, with 
 the additional reflection that Sir Robert 
 was a handsome fellow — though rather 
 huge withal — she blushed a soft consent ; 
 and the marriage articles being agreed to, 
 signed, and sealed, before brown October 
 had run its course, the travelling carriage 
 containing Sir Robert, his lady, and 
 father-in-law, was again on its way to 
 Buckham Priory. 
 
 On their arrival, the then dowager Lady 
 Walton grew pale — then all the hues of 
 the rainbow — and finally settled into a 
 bursting red. 
 
 ^'Lady Walton! — Lady Walton, in- 
 deed I" she repeated, and wrung her 
 hands ; till " liady Walton !" was heard 
 in every room of the Priory. 
 
 " Two Lady Waltons in one house !" 
 she again cried, and flew to her bottle for 
 consolation. Cider had been her favorite 
 beverage ; but, continuing to mix it too 
 strongly with brandy, in a few years after 
 this proof of her son's disobedience, the 
 good lady went out of this world with 
 nearly as little ceremony as her dear 
 deceased husband. 
 
 Previous to his being sent to the univer- 
 sity, Henry's studies were anxiously di- 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 113 
 
 rectcd by his excellent mother and grand- 
 father ; while his father took upon him the 
 guidance of his bodily exercises. He had 
 now been about four years in tlic navy. 
 Sir Robert swore, " Hal was not father's 
 son, in making choice of such a profes- 
 sion." His mother would rather he had 
 chosen the arni}^, while his grandfather 
 sighed and wondered at his taste. Such, 
 at this period of our story, were the in^ 
 habitants of the Priory ; whom having in- 
 troduced to our readers, we proceed with 
 our narrative. 
 
 Return we now to the Manse. Burn- 
 path was a beautiful, though irregular lit- 
 tle village, lying, perhaps, a quarter of a 
 mile (we cannot speak to a measured cer- 
 tainty) from the sea. The long, bleak, 
 dark ridge of Lammermuir smiled into 
 fertility, as its eastern boundary descended 
 towards the kirk. A young forest of pines 
 spread proudly over the surrounding hills. 
 A wimpling burn, which, at times, assumed 
 the airs of a cataract, ran in manifold and 
 antic windings through a steep ravine, or 
 rather chasm, in the mountains that 
 stretched back into the desert. The 
 brook imitated, as it neared the sea, the 
 importance of a river, and separated the 
 Manse from the village. A wooden deal, 
 resting on the opposite banks, served as a 
 bridge during the flood ; and, in summer, 
 four large stones, about three feet apart, 
 answered all the purposes of a ferry. 
 
 We have already said the Manse looked 
 to the sea. It was a dark, dingy-looking 
 house — old, black, and solid ; with deep, 
 narrow, castellated windows ; and huge, 
 massy chimneys, rising, like staircases, 
 from its foundations, on the outside of each 
 gable. It was surrounded by a clump of 
 oaks, and thin, dry, aged firs, the extremi- 
 ties of which had forgotten the seasons. 
 Several wer^ broken and branchless, and 
 two uprooted by the late storm. The 
 tombs joined with a corner of the build- 
 ing. The owl already shrieked on the 
 eaves for its midnight meal ; and the daw 
 perched on the roof of the anticipated 
 
 VOL. II- 8 
 
 ruin. The bat wheeled around it undis- 
 turbed ; and the villagers, though accus- 
 tomed to its gloom, felt loneliness creep 
 through their flesh as they approached it 
 after twilight. The house had no evil 
 name ; but situation is everything (as 
 landlords say) and the Manse had an evil 
 situation. 
 
 The picture, however, had two lights. 
 Before it, lay a sloping garden, disposed 
 and pruned by the band of taste ; and 
 from its highest elevation, its shadow was 
 seen sleeping in the depths of the quiet 
 sea. Around it spread the purple hills ; 
 and, with the breeze that swept down 
 their heathery sides, bearing health upon 
 its bosom, mingled the notes of the shep- 
 herd's flute and the bleating of his flocks. 
 There, too, amidst the young pines, the 
 wild dove welcomed the spring, the lark 
 filled the air with music, and the linnet 
 trilled its artless note from the yellow 
 whins. Within, the fire of comfort 
 blazed, and the eye of afi'ection beamed. 
 Such was the village of Burnpath, and its 
 Manse. 
 
 Mr. Robertson felt for Henry, a feeling 
 of admiration and pity. He admired his 
 ardent and enthusiastic spirit — he pitied 
 its recklessness. He admired the fervid 
 brilliancy of his imagination — he lamented 
 its objects. He admired the warmth and 
 intensity of his feelings, the extent of his 
 knowleds^e, and the clearness of his under- 
 standing — while, to use his own words, he 
 pitied his ignorance of the knowledge 
 which alone maketh rich unto salvation. 
 These sentiments, with a pious and an 
 anxious wish that he might be instrumen- 
 tal in awakening within him a concern for 
 his future welfare, induced him to solicit 
 Henry to remain for several weeks beneath 
 his hospitable roof. The invitation was 
 accepted, with a rapture that might have 
 betrayed other feelings than gratitude ; 
 but this Mr. Robertson attributed to the 
 warmth of his young friend's disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 Mary, too, heard the proposal made 
 
114 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 and accepted, with a delight which she 
 strove not to disguise. Melancholy passed 
 from her brow, a smile played upon her 
 cheeks, and a tear — no, it could not be 
 called a tear — it was a drop of joy — of — 
 but no matter. Henry was by her side — 
 he had taken her hand — she offered not to 
 withdraw it. He said nothing — there was 
 no need to say anything. It was mere 
 congratulation at the prospect of his re- 
 maining a few weeks longer. Mary 
 thought that was her meaning ; it was,, 
 doubtless, Henry's also ; and her father 
 thought so too. 
 
 About twelve weeks had passed. Hen- 
 ry felt exquisitely happy. Mr. Robert- 
 son's prayers had become quite delight- 
 ful ; for then he could take long deep 
 draughts of — he scarce knew what — on 
 the lovely form that knelt by his side ; 
 save when she, too, stole a sidelong glance, 
 and their eyes met — were withdrawn — and 
 both blushed — blushed, it may be, at their 
 want of devotion. Nevertheless, Henry 
 was happy ; Mary was happy, too. Hap- 
 piness is contagious : her father grew 
 cheerful and jocular. He was convinced 
 Henry was becoming religious. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The morning stars were twinkling still. 
 
 The cock but thrice did craw, 
 When our guid laird rode owre the hill, 
 
 In weddin suit sae braw. 
 
 And aye he clapped his ain brown mare 
 That she her feet micht ply ; 
 
 And aye he crooned a canty air — 
 "A happy man am I." 
 
 '• Oh I a happy man am ?,'• quo' he, 
 " As e'er was blest or born I" 
 
 And owre the hill he rode in glee, 
 Upon his weddin morn. 
 
 Now ane by ane the stars gaed out, 
 
 And birds began to sing ; 
 And a' the air became a shout 
 
 Of music on the wing. 
 
 His cheek was flushed but it grew pale 
 
 Before the stars returned, 
 And music was a maniac's wail 
 
 Where desolation mourned 
 
 For vainly whimpered he a catch, 
 
 And vainly did he ride — 
 'Twas but to see another snatch 
 
 Away his bonny bride I 
 
 It had been long understood that the 
 lovely Mary Robertson was to become the 
 wife of a rich bachelor, of ripe middle age, 
 named Mr. Cuthbertson. Their wedding- 
 day, indeed, had been long fixed by her 
 father and wooer, and its eve had arrived. 
 But, on that day, she secretly gave her 
 hand to Henry Walton. 
 
 On the evening preceding the day ap- 
 pointed for his marriage, Mr. Cuthbertson 
 came smiling through Burnpath, patting 
 the shaggy neck of his companion. He 
 appeared to sit lighter on his saddle than 
 usual; and the glad creature, either par- 
 ticipating in his joy, or grateful for the 
 termination of its journey, ambled and 
 affected all the importance of a 
 
 " Courser of the Ukraine breed." 
 
 The rider had laid aside his fashionable 
 blacks. Stopping in the passage, and 
 castinoj off what was rather a warm than 
 a fashionable roquelaure, he displayed a 
 coat of superfine Saxony blue ; which, up- 
 on a body of better proportions, would, in 
 those days, have purchased immortality 
 for 'he most fashionable Schneider in Bond 
 Stre-. Beneath, appeared a waistcoat 
 white as the driven snow, adorned with 
 ornamentcil mother-of-pearls, and unbut- 
 toning his overalls, a pair of 
 
 " Lean and slippered pantaloons." 
 
 were discovered, of the same consistency 
 and hue as his coat. Thus prepared, af- 
 ter smoothing back his hair from his fore- 
 head, and adjusting his cravat, the joyous 
 bridegroom made one stride to the parlor 
 door. 
 
 We know not how our unfortunate pro- 
 genitor looked in Paradise, when ques- 
 tioned — " Adam, what hast thou done .^" 
 but, certainly, not less horror-stricken 
 was our well-dressed lover, when his next 
 step brought him in front of his lovely 
 bride ; with her arms thrown around the 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 115 
 
 neck, and lier face, bathed in tears, buried 
 in the bosom of Henry Walton. His 
 mouth opened to its utmost width. His 
 large eyes became still larger ; they 
 strained forward n-om their sockets, ready 
 to leap on the devoted pair. His clenched 
 hands were raised, and in contact with the 
 roof. The shakino; beo!:an in his heart, 
 and his knees caught the contagion. Eve- 
 ry joint appeared under the power of 
 electricity, and communicated its influence 
 to the furniture in the room. The quiver- 
 ing vibrations of his whole person resem- 
 bled a wire suspended from the ceiling, 
 and struck by an instrument, which gave 
 forth one sepulchral sound ; and with a 
 loud, deep groan, his tall figure fell insen- 
 sible on the floor. 
 
 Mary groaned also, and endeavored to 
 raise him, but could not, Henry sprang 
 to his assistance, and lifting him from the 
 ground, placed him upon the sofa. For 
 a time, his bones seemed melted, and his 
 joints out of their place. At length his 
 eyes began to roll — his teeth grated to- 
 gether — he threw out his tvv^o clenched 
 hands furiously — tore open his spotless 
 vest, and rending it in frenzy, the unfor- 
 tunate mother-of-2:)earis followed the frag- 
 ment, and were driven across the room. 
 The destruction of his costlj Marseilles 
 recalled a portion of his scattered senses ; 
 he gave a piteous glance at his breast, to 
 see the rend " his envious finsrers made ;" 
 then turning his eyes upon Henry, who 
 still bent over him, he uttered a loud yell ; 
 thrust his fingers in the throat of his rival, 
 as a tiger springs upon its prey ; and, in a 
 moment, darted to his feet. Cuthbertson 
 was, at no time, deficient in physical 
 strength ; and now, aided by frenzy, his 
 grasp was the dying gripe of a giant. 
 Henry, who was unprepared for the attack, 
 became black in the strangling hold of his 
 antagonist. Mary, recalled to a con- 
 sciousness of her situation by the conflict, 
 , screamed for assistance, supplicated and 
 threatened, but in vain. At that moment 
 he" father returned from Edinburgh. So 
 
 soon as his astonishment admitted of words, 
 he mingled his inquiries, entreaties, and 
 threats, with his daughter's. Cuthbert- 
 son 's eyes gloated with indignation ; his 
 teeth gnashed ; he uttered short, thick 
 screams, and his fingers yet clung to the 
 throat of his opponent. Henry, however, 
 who, though less in stature, inherited the 
 gigantic strength of his father, and the 
 skill of a wrestler, threw his arms around 
 his man, fixed his knuckles into the most 
 susceptible part of his back, and raising 
 his foot to his knee, hurled him to the 
 earth, with a violence that seemed to shake 
 the very walls of the Manse. 
 
 In a moment Cuthbertson was again 
 upon his feet, " weeping, wailing, and 
 gnashing his teeth." Henry stood by 
 Mary's side. 
 
 " Mary," said her father, " tell me the 
 cause of this unseemly scene — that, on 
 my return, instead of the sounds of joy 
 and rejoicing, I hear wrath and profane 
 language ; and, behold, my best friends 
 tear each other as wild beasts !" 
 
 Mary was silent ; she glanced at Henry, 
 and clung to his side for protection. 
 
 "O sir! sir!" exclaimed Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson — " we are ruined — lost — undone ! 
 The villain ! — the monster ! — the seducer ! 
 — has torn from me the pride o' my heart, 
 and the delight o' my een ! He has 
 turned the house o' joy into shame, and 
 the bridal sang to lamentation ! O Mr. 
 Robertson ! what's to be dune noo .-' Ma- 
 ry, Mary, woman, wha wad hae thocht this 
 o' you .''" 
 
 Mr. Robertson's blood chilled in his 
 veins ; his flesh grew cold upon his bones ; 
 an icy sweat burst from his forehead ; an- 
 s'er and sorrow kindled in his face. He 
 looked upon his daughter with a blighting 
 frown. It was the first she had ever seen 
 upon his mild features. His tongue fal- 
 tered ; he said, " Mary!" as if an accus- 
 ino- spirit from the grave had spoken it ; 
 and the frown blackened on his counte- 
 nance. She heard her name as she had 
 never before heard it from a parent's lips. 
 
116 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 She beheld his look of anguish and of 
 scorn — the tear and the curse meeting in 
 a father's heart for his own child ! She 
 uttered a self-accusing groan, and fell 
 lifeless at his feet. 
 
 Janet Gray, the aged housekeeper, and 
 who had been Mary's nurse, entered with 
 the maid-servant, and carried her to her 
 room. Her father turned with an up- 
 braiding look toward Henry, and said — 
 
 " Mr. Walton, as an injured man and a 
 mourning parent, I demand from you the 
 explanation of circumstances which, 1 
 fear, have brought dishonor upon my 
 house, and shame upon my grey hairs ! 
 Tell me ! — tell an agonized father — was 
 your heart so void of mercy and of grati- 
 tude, as to ruin the bosom that saved you 
 from destruction ? Answer me, Henry 
 Walton ! — I conjure you as in the pre- 
 sence of your Maker — remove my fears, 
 or seal my misery !" 
 
 "It is your own deed!" exclaimed 
 Henry bitterly. " I loved your daughter. 
 I would have fled from your house for 
 ever. You — you withheld me ! and my 
 soul grew mad with love. I would still 
 have fled, have buried me in the deep 
 from which she snatched me ; but I could 
 not rule destiny. She loved me — only 
 me. She is mine ! Your daughter can- 
 not wed that man." 
 
 Mr. Robertson seemed smitten by a 
 voice from heaven ; he wrung his hands — 
 threw himself back in despair, and wept. 
 " Canna marry me !" cried Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson — " she shall marry me ! And on 
 you, ye sacrilegious dyvour, I'll have 
 satisfaction, if satisfaction can be had in 
 the three kingdoms ; for baith heaven and 
 earth will rise up and battle upon my 
 side !" 
 
 '' Sir," said Henry, in sympathy for 
 your feelings, I forgive those epithets. If 
 I have robbed you of her hand, I have not 
 of her aflfections — they were never yours. 
 But I will not withhold from you the satis- 
 faction you demand ; and, to-morrow, or 
 
 this hour, I shall be ready to ofier you 
 such reparation as a gentleman may." 
 
 " Then," cried Mr. Cuthbertson, who 
 understood him literally, "renounce my 
 bride for ever ; and restore her to my 
 heart — if a gentleman can do that — re- 
 store her spotless as a lily opening to 
 the spring." 
 
 " Henry Walton," said Mr, Robertson, 
 rising with apparent composure, " you 
 have rendered this a house of shame, but 
 it shall not be a house of blood. Such 
 language may be fitting for the world, but 
 not for the presence of a minister of peace. 
 This moment leave my roof; and may 
 Heaven change your heart, and forgive 
 your ingratitude !" 
 
 Thus saying, he took his hand, and led 
 him to the door. Henry ofiered not to 
 resist or expostulate, and bending a proud 
 farewell, the doors of Burnpath ]\Ianse 
 closed on him for ever. 
 
 Mr. Cuthbertson, now relieved of his 
 rival's presence, took out his tobacco-box, 
 pulled a chair to the fire, ordered a pipe, 
 threw his legs across each other, and com- 
 menced smoking with the utmost satisfac- 
 tion and indifierence ; save that he occa- 
 sionally bent an anxious gaze on the torn 
 vest ; and looking carefully round the 
 room for the unlucky fragment, and its 
 mother-of-pearl buttons, his eyes fell up- 
 on it, and lifting it from the floor, he 
 commenced fitting it to the parent cloth, 
 and, with perfect complacency, said — 
 " Hoot, it will mend again. The seam, 
 when the coat is buttoned, will never be 
 noticed. Here, lassie," he cried to the 
 servant who entered the room, " was ye 
 ever at the sewing school ?" 
 " Yes, sir," replied the girl. 
 " Weel, do ye think, ye could mak a 
 job o' my waistcoat .?" returned he. " If 
 ye do it neatly, ye shall have half-a-crown 
 to yersel, besides the ribbons the morn. 
 But hand awa, and see hoo your mistress 
 is in the first place, and come and tell 
 me." 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 117 
 
 On Henry's departure, Mr. Robertson 
 'entered his daughter's room. She was 
 lying delirious, calling for " her Henry, 
 her husband, to save her !" Janet Gray 
 Bat by her side. 
 
 "Can it be thus, Janet.?" said he. 
 ** Does she call him hushandV* 
 
 Janet pointed to the ring upon Mary's 
 finger, and wars silent. Mr. Robertson 
 reeled back, and leaned his head against 
 the window. The wind howled without, 
 ■and the rain dashed upon the casements. 
 He hastened down stairs, and entered the 
 parlor as Mr. Cuthbertson gave his last 
 injunction to the maid. 
 
 " My friend," said he, " I have acted 
 rashly in turning this young man from the 
 house. I fear my daughter is, indeed — 
 his — his wife !" 
 
 ^^ His wife!" ejaculated Mr. Cuthbert- 
 son — " his wife I" — The pipe fell from his 
 mouth — the fragment of the waistcoat was 
 east in the fire. " His wife !" he exclaimed 
 a third time, and stamped his foot upon 
 the floor. 
 
 " Go," said Mr. Robertson to the girl, 
 *'' see if Mr. Walton be yet in the village ; 
 and tell him that I beg he will instantly 
 return. It is a dreadful night," continued 
 he, addressing his forlorn friend, "and in 
 putting him from my house, I have neither 
 acted as a father, a man, nor a Christian.'"' 
 
 '" Oh ! may darkness gather round his 
 soul, and despair be the light of his heart !" 
 cried Cuthbertson ; " for he has made me 
 miser able." 
 
 The maid returned, and stated that Mr. 
 Walton had not been seen. 
 
 " He will have taken to the moors," 
 said Mr. Robertson ; " and, ignorant of 
 the dangerous way, in the darkness of the 
 night, his blood may be upon my head." 
 
 " Are ye mad ? are ye daft ."' said Mr, 
 Cuthbertson wildly; "Mr. Robertson! 
 would you insult me in the midst of my 
 bereavement ? Would ye leave me — me, 
 that ye've kenned for thirty years — to sor- 
 row as one that has no hope ?" 
 
 " Have not I also my sorrows .?" replied 
 
 Mr. Robertson — " the sorrows of a father 
 whose last spring of comfort is dried up .? 
 But let me not add sin to sorrow." And 
 he hurried from the house. 
 
 " His wife ! his wife !" muttered Mr. 
 Cuthbertson to himself. " Am I in my 
 right senses } Am I mysel } — or is this a 
 dream } Me that was to be married the 
 morn? His wife ! — Oh, mercy ! mercy ! — 
 hoG lang am I to be the warld's laugh, and 
 the warld's jeer!" And he crushed the 
 broken pipe beneath his heel. " His 
 wife !" he exclaimed, and rushing across 
 the room, adding — 
 
 " Frailty, thy name is woman !'' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 the sea is silent and the winds of God 
 Stir not its waters ; on its voiceless waves 
 
 Thick darkness presses as a mighty load, [graves 
 Weigliing their strength to slumber. O-er earth's 
 
 The lonely stars are dreaming ; and the v.'ind, 
 Benighted on the desert, howls to find 
 
 Its trackless path, as would a dying hound. 
 
 The thick clouds, wearied with their course all day, 
 
 Repose, like shrouded ghosts, on the black air ; 
 Or im the darkness, having lost their way. 
 
 Await the dawn ! 'Tis midnight reigns around- 
 Midnight, when crime and murder quit their lair ; 
 
 TheJr footsteps, like their conscience— void of sound ; 
 Their mission, blood— their recompense despair ! 
 
 Hour succeeded hour — midnight was 
 past; Mr. Cuthbertson still roamed dis- 
 consolate through the parlor, at times ut- 
 tering a low, bitter sort of howl ; and the 
 wind howled still more disconsolately 
 through the old firs : but Mr. Robertson 
 returned not. Mary had sunk into a slum- 
 ber, and Janet crept softly down stairs to 
 inform her master. 
 
 "Is Mr. Robertson not here, sir.?" 
 inquired she, addressing Mr. Cuthbertson. 
 
 He looked at his wat<3h. His own feel- 
 ings were instantly swallowed up in anxiety 
 for his friend. 
 
 "Preserve us!" he exclaimed — "it is 
 one o'clock ! and six hours since he gaed 
 to the moors, after the author o' a' our 
 sorrows ! What can hae come owre him } 
 Janet, haste ye, cry up the callant ; fetch 
 me my cloak ; and we'll awa seek for him." 
 
118 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Janet hurried to execute his orders j 
 and in a few minutes Mr. Cuthbertson and 
 the minister's boy left the house. For 
 three hours they continued their fruitless 
 search upon the moor. They were now 
 near the cottage of an aged widow, whom 
 Henry and Mary were wont to visit. A 
 light glimmered through the solitary pane ; 
 and, as they approached it, a murmui-ing 
 sound fell upon their ears. 
 
 " Wheesht ? dinna mak a noise," whis- 
 pered Mr. Cuthbertson, shaking as he 
 spoke. 
 
 Glancins; throug-h the little window, 
 they perceived Henry Walton bending 
 over the fire. His face was pale and agi- 
 tated. There was blood upon his brow ; 
 and, as he stretched out his hand to stir 
 the decaying embers, it appeared red and 
 trembling. Mr. Cuthbertson's hair stood 
 erect. He placed his finger upon the 
 boy's lips, and stole cautiously from the 
 cottage. When at the distance of a hun- 
 dred yards, he looked cautiously behind 
 and around him ; then said, in a deep 
 whisper, while every joint shook — " Did 
 you see the blood ! He has murdered 
 him !" 
 
 They reached the Manse, and commu- 
 nicating their fearful discovery to Janet, 
 spoke of obtaining a warrant for Henry's 
 apprehension. 
 
 The 5th of January dawned ; but for a 
 bridal it brought blood. Mary's senses 
 were returned, but she knew not of Hen- 
 ry's departure, nor the absence of her 
 father. 
 
 " Janet," said she, '' send my Henry to 
 me. If we have sinned against my father, 
 we will now kneel together at his feet for 
 his forgiveness ! I will water them with 
 my tears ! He could never behold me 
 weep ; and he will not now spurn his poor 
 child from his presence. Go, Janet, go ! I 
 cannot live unless we obtain his blessinsr." 
 
 Janet turned away and wept. She sigh- 
 ed, " My poor ruined bairn !" and hid her 
 face against the wall. 
 
 " O Janet !" said Mary, ^' wiU you too 
 
 hide your face from me ! Forgive me, 
 Janet — forgive your poor Mary ! If I have 
 given ofi"ence to my father, I should have 
 sinned against heaven in marryino- Mr. 
 Cuthbertson ; for would it not be sinful to 
 give the hand to one, while the heart clings 
 to another ? Come, Janet, do not turn 
 from me. My father vnll bless us — Mr. 
 Cuthbertson himself will pardon us. Go 
 call my Henry. 
 
 " The wretch is not here !" cried Janet, 
 in the transport of her feelings ; " and, 
 oh, that the sea had swallowed him ! — or 
 buried you baith in its bosom — that I 
 should say such a word ! — ^before I had 
 
 lived to see my Mary the wife of — a 
 
 but it shanna be spoken by me ! O Mary ! 
 Mary ! — may heaven hold ye guiltless !" 
 
 " Janet !'' said Mary, grasping her hand, 
 " have I merited this language ? — or what 
 — Janet — what is its meanincr ? You trem- 
 ble ! Speak, Janet! — speak !" 
 
 At that moment, a sound of voices was 
 heard without. Mary glanced from the 
 window ; and beheld the mangled and 
 bleeding body of her father, borne on the 
 shoulders of a group of villagers ! She 
 gave but one scream ! — but one thought 
 flashed throu2;h her bosom. It was that 
 she was a wife, the wife of a murderer ! — 
 of the murderer of her father ! — and Ja- 
 net caught her in her arms. 
 
 Mr. Robertson was senseless, but his 
 eyes still moved ; and there was a quiver- 
 ing motion about his breast. His wounds 
 were dressed by the village surgeon, Mr. 
 Leslie, but his recovery was pronounced 
 impossible. Mr. Cuthbertson and the boy 
 had whispered their suspicions to the vil- 
 lagers ; and their fears augmented their 
 evidence of Henry's guilt. A party, who 
 were despatched to the widow's to secure 
 him, returned without procuring any far- 
 ther trace of him. That Henry had com- 
 mitted the deed, no one but the surgeon 
 aforementioned entertained a doubt. 
 
 As jMary recovered, she east a chilling 
 glance of despair upon old Janet. A few 
 tears followed — they were but a few ; and 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 119 
 
 dashing them away — " Follow me, Janet !" 
 said she, calmly, but sternly. The old 
 woman obeyed, with a fearful and me- 
 chanical motion, as deprived of power to 
 resist the command. She entered the 
 apartment where her father lay. Mr. 
 Leslie watched anxiously over him ; while 
 Mr. Cuthbertson, and three or four vil- 
 lagers, conversed in deep whispers in a 
 corner of the room. They fell back at 
 her approach. The kindest-hearted gazed 
 on her with horror. The boldest shudder- 
 ed, and avoided the touch of her garments. 
 Every bosom was filled with dark thoughts ; 
 but none dared to whisper them in her 
 presence. At the accusing glance of her 
 tearless eyes, they crowded closer together. 
 She approached the bed where her father 
 lay, bent for a moment over his body ; 
 kissed his pale forehead ; and, without a 
 word, without a sigh, sat down by his side. 
 The sursreou took her hand. 
 
 CD 
 
 "Be comforted," said he; "your fa- 
 ther will yet be able to explain all ; and 
 whoever is guilty, it will not be as some 
 have said, and perhaps wish." And he 
 cast an upbraiding glance towards Mr. 
 Cuthbertson. 
 
 " What do you mean. Doctor .^" inquired 
 Mr. Cuthbertson vehemently, and with a 
 degree of indignation of which, to do him 
 justice, he was seldom criminal. " What 
 do you mean, Doctor .^" he repeated, rais- 
 ing his voice. "God forbid that I should 
 wish the blood of a worm to lie at the door 
 o' my deadliest enemy ! I have but gien 
 evidence and testimony of the scenes and 
 of the blood of which I was a witness — 
 evidence, sir, that has convinced every 
 weel-disposed mind, but your ain ; which, 
 it is weel kenned, bears the mark of the 
 beast, and the image of the suspected per- 
 son's ! And could I, Doctor — could I see 
 the blood of my best friend — the blood of 
 my mair than faither — on the face and the 
 hands of his murderer and not give evi- 
 dence to the truth .-" 
 
 Mr. Leslie would have replied, or or- 
 dered all, from the privilege of his pro- 
 
 fession, to withdraw. But Mary had ri- 
 veted her eyes upon the speaker. When 
 he concluded, she arose, walked firmly 
 across the floor to where he stood, and 
 darting upon him a glance that struck dis- 
 may into his heart, and to the hearts of 
 all — " Tell me, accusing spirit," she said, 
 in a voice clear and slow, but dreadful and 
 piercing as its wonted sounds were melo- 
 dious — " tell me by what right ye accuse 
 my husband .'^" 
 
 She had never heard Henry named as 
 being guilty ; and her fearful interroga- 
 tion, the vehemence with which it was 
 uttered, the absence of a single tear or a 
 sigh— of anything like a woman's or a 
 daughter's jrrief — clunsr like icicles to the 
 hearts of all present. And she, whom 
 yesterday they regarded as not inferior to 
 an angel, they now shrank from as the wife 
 of a murderer ; nor merely his wife, but his 
 accomplice — his accomplice in the murder 
 of her own father ! Overpowered by the 
 conviction, one by one, they slunk fearful 
 from her sight. Each, in his own w^y, 
 told his suspicions ; and, before night, the 
 gentle Mary Robertson was whispered of 
 with horror ; yea, tongues that in the 
 morning blessed her, trembled to pro- 
 nounced her name. 
 
 Although Mr. Cuthbertson did not par- 
 ticipate in the idle suspicions of those 
 around him regarding her, yet, awed by 
 her appalling look, the unearthly earnest- 
 ness of her tone and manner, united with 
 the almost horrible calmness of her sorrow, 
 he stood silent, quaking in her presence ; 
 and as she cast upon him a deadly glance 
 of accusation and scorn, he also shrank 
 from the room with the deluded villagers. 
 
 Mary again took her seat by the bedside. 
 Niirht came and the morning dawned ; and 
 day succeeded day, but still she sat silent, 
 motionless, and tearless ; her cheeks pale 
 and emaciated, watching as a spirit by the 
 bed of death. Buried in her own griefs, 
 her eyes fixed upon her father's face, sleep 
 approached her not ; of food she was al- 
 most unconscious when presented; and 
 
120 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 consolation fell upon her ears as on a life- 
 less thing. Life had, indeed, returned to 
 her father ; but, with it, reason had fled, 
 lo-norant of all around him, he now fan- 
 cied himself surrounded by his wife and 
 his children. He spoke to them ; he 
 called them by their names. The follies, 
 and the glad days of youth, passed in ar- 
 ray before him. Then would he call upon 
 his Mary, his poor lost Mary ! With him 
 she was the infant — the darling — the pride 
 of his age — and the ruined wife, within an 
 hour ! Again would he weep, raise his 
 hands to bless her, burst into a loud laugh 
 in the midst of his blessing, and cry — 
 " The murderers !" and in the same breath, 
 " Your husband, Mary !" Still her fea- 
 tures moved not, and her eyes were dry as 
 summer heat. 
 
 The wild ravings of Mr. Robertson 
 tended to strengthen the conviction of Mr. 
 Cuthbertson and his friends, of the cer- 
 tainty of Henry's guilt ; and the circum- 
 stances, augmented by all that indignation 
 and personal suffering could suggest, were 
 transmitted to his family at Buckham Pri- 
 ory. 
 
 Still Mr. Leslie would admit of no 
 steps for his apprehension ; declaring that, 
 although the life of Mr. Robertson was 
 beyond hope, yet, as the fever abated, a 
 lucid interval would take place before 
 death, when the facts of the melancholy 
 event might be learned from himself. Mr. 
 Leslie and Mary were, therefore, the only 
 individuals ignorant of the intelligence 
 sent to the Priory ; and, for many days, 
 with but momentary intermission, he con- 
 tinued by the bed of the sufferer, eager 
 to catch the first word of certainty regard- 
 ing the innocence or guilt of his unhappy 
 friend. Mary sat beside him as a pale 
 ghost : she was neither heard to breathe, 
 nor seen to move ; but gazed, the skele- 
 ton of what she was, on her dying parent. 
 He had sunk into a long and undisturbed 
 sleep ; and Mr. Leslie having announced 
 that when he awoke his reason would have 
 returned, Mr. Cuthbertson, Janet, and 
 
 three of the kirk elders, were anxiously 
 waiting in the room. He at length awoke, 
 and, with a fond, but feeble voice, cried — 
 "Mary!"— my child!" 
 
 Every ear was strained to listen — every 
 eye turned to the bed. She started from 
 her long, death-like trance, and threw her 
 arms around his neck. 
 
 "My father!" she cried wildly, and 
 pressed her lips to his. They were the 
 first words she had spoken since demand- 
 ing of Mr. Cuthbertson why he accused 
 her husband. 
 
 "My dear Mary!" said he, "I feell 
 have but a few minutes to live. Call your 
 Henry, that I may obtain his forgiveness ' 
 — that you both may receive the blessing 
 of a dying father ! My dear, dear child !" 
 he added, and endeavored to press her to 
 his breast. 
 
 She started to his embrace. The tears 
 burst in torrents from her eyes. A loud 
 laugh rang through the room ! She threw 
 
 o o o 
 
 herself upon the ll5ed, and cried — " Am I 
 not the wife of a murderer ! My father I 
 — say — is not your Mary the wife of her 
 
 father's Tell me — tell me ! — are the 
 
 hands of my Henry clean .' — shall I be- 
 hold him again .'' Speak ! Oh, speak, my 
 father !" 
 
 "Your Henry! my beloved child!" 
 said he ; " no ! no ! where is my son P^ 
 
 Mr. Cuthbertson hung his head in con- 
 fusion. The elders looked upon him up- 
 braidingly, and pressed closer to their 
 minister. 
 
 Mr. Robertson now briefly received 
 from Mr. Leslie an account of the sus- 
 picions that rested upon Henry, and their 
 cause. He begged to be raised upon his 
 bed ; and, throwing his feeble arm around 
 his daughter, said — " Forgive ine, my 
 dear child — forgive your dying father ; 
 and, when you meet your Henry, obtain 
 me also his forgiveness. Two men sprang 
 upon me on the heath. I cried to Hea- 
 ven for help ; for I thought not that man 
 could hear me. I was wounded, cruelly 
 wounded, when my cries brought a stran- 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 121 
 
 ger to my assistance ! He closed witli 
 the unhappy men, and by their cries ap- 
 peared to overpower them. I heard his 
 voice — it was Henry's ! — my child, your 
 injured husband's ! I endeavored to fly — 
 where I ran I know not. I rushed bleed- 
 ins; over the heath — the earth seemed 
 turning with me — and I remember no- 
 thing- until this hour. And now I feel that 
 death is with me ! My friends — fare- 
 well !" 
 
 He took Mr. Cuthbertson's hand — " Be 
 a father to my dear child ! Best, gene- 
 rous friend — bear Henry your forgiveness, 
 and my blessing ! " He pressed his daugh- 
 ter for the last time to his bosom — " God 
 of the orphan, protect my Mary ! Fare- 
 well ! — my child — my joy — farewell !" 
 
 They raised her from his breast ; but 
 his spirit had passed into the presence of 
 Him who gave it. Mary fell upon her 
 knees ; she raised her eyes to Heaven. 
 The sealed up fountains of her heart 
 gushed out afresh ; and destroying joy held 
 conflict with bitter agony, bereavement, 
 and sorrow. 
 
 Weeks passed on — a successor to Mr. 
 Robertson was already nominated. Ma- 
 terials were placed around the Manse, in 
 order to its undergoing improvements for 
 his reception. To Mary they were a re- 
 newal of griefs ; and at times she almost 
 regarded them as an insult to her sorrows. 
 She had now to leave the hearth where 
 her first smile of infancy was greeted by a 
 parent's kiss. The furniture being to her 
 unnecessary, and not knowing where to 
 remove it, she felt compelled to announce 
 it for sale. Previously, she had sent her 
 father's books as a present to Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson. On the day of sale, many at- 
 tended to procure a remembrance of a man 
 whose memory they esteemed. A stran- 
 ger, however, whose motive appeared a 
 determination to secure all, without re- 
 gard to the value, was the sole purchaser. 
 Many surmises where whispered round 
 regarding him ; but he was unknown to 
 all. On several of the carts, however, in 
 
 which the goods were conveyed away, ap- 
 peared the words — " Thomas Cuthbert- 
 son, Esq.^ Cuthbertson Lodge.'' ^ 
 
 Mary left the Manse on the preceding 
 day, and remained an inmate with a far- 
 mer in the neighborhood. She crossed 
 the little wooden bridge in calm resigna- 
 tion, her eyes fixed upon the ground, and 
 fearful to cast a look behind. But Janet 
 followed and wept. On the third morn- 
 ing after leaving the Manse — " Janet," 
 said Mary, " business of importance calls 
 me immediately to England. At this 
 season, and at your years, it will be im- 
 possible you can accompany me. In a 
 few months — I hope — I trust, Janet, your 
 Mary will be able to send for you again. 
 In the meantime, at Mr. Cuthbertson's 
 you will find a home — in him a friend. I 
 have prepared you a conveyance, and 
 must myself depart to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! dinna speak o't ! — dinna think 
 o't, my dear bairn !" cried Janet — " what 
 is there in the season, or what is there in 
 the distance, that I am na able to follow 
 ye ? Can ye think that I wad see you, 
 you a young an' unprotected cratur, 
 gang hunders and bunders o' miles, wi' 
 naebody to look after ye — naebody to gie 
 ye an advice ! O Mary ! neither you nor 
 ane o' your faither's house ever refused 
 me a favor that I asked — an' it surely 
 winna be my ain Mary that will deny me, 
 in a case like this, an' for her ain guid ? 
 Dinna think o' leavin' me behint ye !" 
 
 Mary threw her arms around her neck. 
 '' Distress me not, Janet !" cried she — 
 " it is impossible you can accompany me. 
 But we shall meet again !" 
 
 Janet knew not the forebodings that dis- 
 tressed the mind of her young mistress, 
 nor suspected the romantic and desperate 
 nature of her journey. 
 
 " How can it be impossible .'" continu- 
 ed she — " O my bairn ! — how can it be 
 impossible } But if it be His will that we 
 maun part, oh, may it be only for a sea- 
 son, to accomplish the all-wise purposes 
 o' His unerring providence ; for He can 
 
122 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 brino- crood oot o' apparent evil. An' oh, 
 mind, Mary, hinnj, ye hae nae faither 
 noo to direct ye ! — Ye winna liae me to 
 advise ye ! But put your trust in the 
 Faither o' the faitherless. He will be 
 your director. An' oh, should ye enter 
 the houses o' the ungodly, where family 
 duty is unheard, as duly as ye rise, let the 
 blessed thought o' the morning exercise 
 in your faither's house, summon ye to 
 your knees. And at night, when others 
 sit down to cards an' to gambling, think 
 that there were nae sic books in the house 
 where ye were brought up ; an' that the 
 hours they spend in wickedness an' folly, 
 were there spent in prayer and in edifica- 
 tion, concerning the things that belong to 
 our eternal peace. 1 ken, my dear bairn, 
 that my words winna be wasted upon you. 
 An' oh, let me say wi' the wise maa — ' If 
 sinners entice thee, consent thou not.' 
 Let them ca' it amusement — to kill time 
 — or what they will. Life is uncertain 
 an' tune is precious. Flee ye rather to 
 your closet, an' there, in secret, pour out 
 your soul before a prayer-hearing God. 
 An' only think, if shuffling pieces o' paint- 
 ed pasteboard, sacrificing fortune, health, 
 an' reputation, be for a moment to be put 
 in the balance wi' the sublime privilege o' 
 holding conversation wi' Him that sitteth 
 upon the throne for ever and ever, an' 
 filleth immensity wi' his presence ! They 
 may mock you, they may persecute you ; 
 but think o' Him that was mocked, scourg- 
 ed, spit upon, an' crucified on a tree, for 
 your sake ; an' remember that He has 
 said — ' They who arc ashamed o' Him be- 
 fore men, o' them will He be ashamed 
 before His Father who is in heaven.' 
 Pray for a humble an' a contrite spirit. 
 In a' your trials may He be your rock o' 
 support ; an' wi' this assurance, I will go 
 down to the grave in peace." 
 
 Next morning Mary parted from her 
 faithful domestic. The farmer, with whom 
 she resided for a few days, sent a cart with 
 her luggage to the inn, where the coach 
 passed for Edinburgh. Every inhabitant 
 
 in the village — the old, the young, and 
 the middle-aged — were assembled round 
 the house, to say " Farewell I" and be- 
 stow their blessing. Every eye was wet ; 
 and, as she came forth to take their hands, 
 hers alone was dry. She spoke not, for 
 anguish fettered her tongue ; and as she, 
 without a sigh, took the hand of the last, 
 and went forth, a homeless orphan, from 
 the midst of them, they might have said 
 to each other — 
 
 " The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow, 
 Her wounds are far too deep for simple grief." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Hail, Prudence '. well-fed child of Forethought — hail! 
 
 Cold, cautious Beauty, in a Quaker's bonnet — 
 Thou friend indeed, when friends and patrons fail — 
 
 Accept a stranger's, would-be-follower"s sonnet I 
 At thy hard heart, the purseless fool may rail : — 
 "What, though thy cheeks with pity ne"er were pale — 
 
 Ne'er went ye shoeless — dinnerless — and ne"er 
 
 From friendship begged a cup of meagre beer — 
 Ne'er bartered from thy back thy clothes for sale, 
 
 To help thy hunger — never met the sneer 
 Of wealth nor wisdom — ne'er a copper gave, 
 
 But saved thy pence a-day, and pounds a-year 
 No man's mean debtor ; — and no passion's slave ; 
 Thy law, thy god — thy self; thy aim — to savs. 
 
 None will believe Henry's feelings to 
 have been of the most enviable descrip- 
 tion, as he crossed the little wooden bridge 
 leading from the Manse ; yet there are no 
 moments of despair of such dark and con- 
 tinued depression, but that hope, like the 
 flash of an angel's wing, will dart across 
 the bosom ; and as we would hurry on- 
 ward in desperation, will chain us in in- 
 certitude. Acted upon by the contention 
 of such feelings, and as the shadow of hope 
 is more potent in the soul than the dense 
 and solid gloominess of despair, he hurried 
 across the heath to the cottage of the 
 widow; where, having once met with 
 Mary, he believed that there he should 
 be more immediately associated with the 
 presence of her spirit — that there, at 
 least, she would still be present in re- 
 membrance ; and perhaps he conceived, 
 that, having found him there once, there 
 also she would fly again to find him. The 
 supposition was sufiiciently improbable ; 
 
— s 
 
 THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 ISS 
 
 but lie is indeed a wise man who can resist 
 believing ttiat to be possible, whicb is the 
 first of his desires. The widow was too 
 blind to observe his agitation ; too deaf to 
 interrupt him by conversation ; and he 
 had seated himself on the round stool by 
 the turf fire, brooding in silence how to 
 act, when hearing 
 
 — »- — " the cries of one in jeopardy, 
 
 He rose and ran." 
 
 With the parties the reader is already ac- 
 quainted. Having rushed upon the assail- 
 ants without identifying the object of their 
 attack, he drew their fury upon himself ; 
 and holdino; with them a retreatins; con- 
 flict, separated them from each other. 
 One of the ruffians, discharging a pistol 
 without effect, and, overpowered by Hen- 
 ry's superior strength, screamed to his 
 comrade for assistance ; and, upon regain- 
 ing his feet, both fled for safety, leaving 
 their unknown antagonist to follow up the 
 rescue of their victim. But the darkness 
 of the night, and Mr. Robertson's attempt 
 at flight, thwarted his efforts. Therefore, 
 after an ineffectual search for an hour, he 
 re-entered the cottage. 
 
 Wearied by the loneliness of the objects 
 around him, and urged to change of scene 
 by the irksome despondency of his feel- 
 ings, as the shadows of the morning began 
 to throw their first uncertain glimmering 
 over the fading stars, he arose from the 
 dying embers, which had withdrawn both 
 their heat and light ; and approaching the 
 bedside of the aged invalid, gave a last and 
 an indistinct look of sympathy on her 
 withered features, where time, disease, 
 and poverty had left their ravages. The 
 gloomy picture of wretchedness cut him 
 to the heart, 
 
 " Farewell, Peggy !" said he, and he 
 cast a parting glance around the hovel ; 
 where the dun rays of morning gave a 
 deeper squalidness to the apartment, and 
 rather than affording light, made misery 
 visible . 
 
 '' Are ye here yet, my bairn P'' inquired 
 she anxiously — " whar are ye gaun .-" 
 
 And she stretched forth her feeble hand ta 
 detain him. 
 
 He made no reply; but, drawing his 
 purse from his pocket, laid it upon her 
 pillow. From Mary's sufferings and cir- 
 cumstances, he feared the widow was de- 
 prived of her best or only friend. He 
 farther considered himself as the principal 
 cause of that deprivation ; and deemed it 
 his duty to make, as he best could, equi- 
 valent restitution. It was partly this feel- 
 ing of niggard justice, but more a momen- 
 tary gush of sympathy, that influenced the 
 action, without reflecting upon what might 
 be his own necessities. All he knew of 
 want was from the pages of some novelist, 
 as ignorant of its meaning as himself, or 
 the picture of a beggar who solicited his 
 alms ; but, as he dropped him his loose 
 pence, or a piece of silver, he stopped not 
 to see hunger written on the eyeballs of 
 the supplicant. Generosity, too, is often 
 the weakness of noble and ardent minds. It 
 is a weakness that pleases in the act ; andy 
 even where misplaced or thoughtlessly be- 
 stowed, it is a " failing leaning to the side 
 of virtue ;" and the reflection, if not pleas- 
 ing, has but little of bitterness. 
 
 For three hours he wandered across the 
 moors, which were arrayed in all the lone- 
 liness of winter sterility. The sheep were 
 crowded together, and penned on the hill 
 tops. The whistle of some lonely shep- 
 herd, and the barking of his faithful colly 
 in reply, were the only sounds that broke 
 upon the silent torments of our traveller. 
 Though without caring where, or in what 
 direction, his journey for the day mio-ht 
 terminate, he purposely deviated from the 
 main path. About noon he gained the 
 summit of Dnnse Law. Had the earth 
 been touched by the finger of a potent 
 wizard, the burst of transformation could 
 not have been more instantaneous or en- 
 chanting. For hours, and but for a mo- 
 ment before, he had waded through the 
 snows of a desert, where winter moaned 
 to the freezing air, or slept in the clefts of 
 the barren hills, undisturbed by life or 
 
a24 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 vegetation. Such wa-s the scene behind 
 him. At his feet, the Merse lay like a 
 vast garden shieided from the storm, and 
 looking glad in conscious security. The 
 Whitadder, breaking amidst hanging woods 
 from the obsciirity of the wilderness, pour- 
 ed its sound upon his ears. The sun, till 
 then obstiured by mountain mists, smiled 
 over the snowy top of Cheviot, upon the 
 fairy strath. The Blackadder, leaping 
 from the icy fetters of its upland birth, 
 ran to embrace the Whitadder ; smaller 
 streams hastened to join them ; and the 
 Tweed, roUing undisturbed, in deep ma- 
 jesty, down the middle distance, with the 
 pride and the heart of a parent, received 
 and had room for all. The sea, kissed by 
 motionless clouds, lay far to the east ; and, 
 cheerful towns, glad villages, rich villas, 
 and farm-steads groaning beneath a load 
 of plenty, 
 
 " Thick as autumnal leaves,^' 
 
 studded the spacious valley, which was 
 still lovely, though in its winter naked- 
 ness. The trees were leafless ; but the 
 numerous forest-looking plantations of 
 pines, added a green variety to the scene. 
 Hitherto the bleak hills were in unison 
 with his feelings ; but misery and melan- 
 choly are so foreign to the natural tem- 
 perament of humanity, that it is almost 
 impossible for the heart to be so soured as 
 to continue long v/holly insensible to the 
 influence of surrounding objects. An im- 
 pression of comfort and cheerfulness was 
 diffused around him ; and, unused to sor- 
 row, when gladness met his eye, his breast 
 answered the landscape with a sigh, and 
 felt lighter. He stood for a moment to 
 contemplate it. It was one of those long 
 deep draughts of admiring observation, 
 when the eyes wander above, below, and 
 around, till they swim in a whirl of poe- 
 try. But a man must be alone, before he 
 can feel the soul of a breathing landscape. 
 Were we travelling with a clever, imper- 
 tinent, stage-coach hunter after the pic- 
 turesque, who vents his stupid admiration 
 
 by the mouthful at every turn of the road, 
 we would go through Italy with such a 
 fellow, and swear, — " It is all barren." 
 We know not how long he stood, for na- 
 ture steals like sleep upon the senses j but 
 he was arcused from his contemplation by 
 the following unceremonious salutation — 
 " That's a sicht no to be seen ilka day ! 
 Ye should come up here an' tak a peep at 
 the Merse aboot the end o' May, an' then 
 ye wad see a sicht guid for weak een !'^ 
 
 The speaker was a brawny, ruddy- 
 faced man ; his age could net exceed for- 
 ty. He wore a short dark-grey coat, a 
 double-breasted waistcoat of the same ma- 
 terial, white corduroy knee breeches, dark 
 blue stockings, a pair of half lecririns of the 
 same consistency as his breeches, and 
 above these were wrapt firmly-twisted 
 straw ropes round the ankles, which con- 
 verted his substantial double-soled shoes 
 into all the purposes of snow-boots. He 
 wore also a plaid, which was merely thrown 
 round his neck as a protection to the 
 throat. His stature might be five feet 
 ten ; and with him were two companions, 
 who shared no small portion of his atten* 
 tion. The one was a pepper-colored dog, 
 betwixt the greyhound and the colly 
 breed, which appeared, in all but speech, 
 to answer every thought that arose in its 
 master's mind. The other was a formida- 
 ble hazel cudgel, or walking-stick, which 
 was the better secured to his grasp by a 
 piece of whip cord, forming a loop to its 
 head, and twisted round his hand. This 
 he, from time to time, surveyed with a 
 look of admiring satisfaction ; and Rover, 
 as he called his dog, evidently shared in 
 his complacency. 
 
 " Ye'll be for Dunse, now, I reckon .^" 
 continued he. 
 
 " What is the name of the town in the 
 ^^lley before us .-" returned Henry. 
 
 " Odd ! ye maun be a stranger here- 
 away, I take," replied the other—" that's 
 Dunse ; yc've heard the saying, ^ Dunse 
 dings a' for honest men an' bonny lasses ;' 
 an' that's as true a saying as if it had been 
 
THE GUIDWTFE OF COLDINGHAM. 
 
 125 
 
 preiited at the end o' the gospels. Ye 
 wad say it yersel' if ye were acquaint wi' 
 them. There's mony a clever fallow come 
 out o' Dunse, lad; frae Duns Scotus, 
 doon to the present time. 1 belang there 
 myseP, in a kind o' way. Ye'll be stop- 
 pin' there a' night, nae doot ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I may," answered Henry, 
 who, as he walked by the side of his new 
 companion, scarce knew how to receive his 
 instantaneous familiarity. 
 
 " Weel, I think ye had better," said the 
 other, ^' If ye hae far to gang ; for ye look 
 gay sair fagged. I dinua think ye've been 
 used wi' walkin'. Sir. Hae ye come far .^" 
 
 This was a question Henry felt inclined 
 to answer drily ; but there was something 
 in the countenance of the other which 
 made it impossible to be angry or offended 
 with his inquisitive curiosity ; and he re- 
 plied — " At daybreak I left the house of 
 a friend ; but I cannot say the milestones 
 have been sufficiently numerous to make 
 me note the distance.'' 
 
 " I dare say no I — I dare say no !" re- 
 sumed the stranger, with a well-pleased 
 laugh. " It's a dreary bit that back owre 
 there, at a' times. The puir peeseweeps 
 starve to death on't, in the very middle o' 
 simmer ; an' they are the last craturs that 
 I ken o' to starve ! But as for lookin' for 
 milestanes there, ye micht as weel expect 
 to find the grace o' God in the court o' a 
 Spanish inquisition. I think, by yer 
 tongue, ye 're an Englishman. What 
 pairt do ye come frae, if it be a fair ques- 
 tion .?" 
 
 " From Devonshire," was the reply. 
 
 " Frae Devonshire !" said the stranger, 
 with surprise, '' Odd, I see, by the map, 
 that's maistly at the Land's End ! An' 
 are ye gaun hame the noo .^" 
 
 " Yes — perhaps," said Henry, vexed 
 at everything that reminded him of his 
 situation. 
 
 " Then ye arena vera sure about it, 
 like .^" returned the other ; " but, if ye 
 intend to walk a' the way, yer shoon win- 
 na be meikle in yer debt afore ye get to 
 
 yer faither's. But is yer faither living } 
 — that's the question." 
 
 " I believe so," said Henry, hastilyj, 
 wearied of his inquiries. 
 
 " Then ye're no vera sure about that 
 either !" resumed the incorrigible que- 
 rist. " Ye've been a guid while awa,may 
 be ? I think ye look something like a 
 better sort o' a sailor. Ye'll be in the 
 Kinsf's service, I fancy .^" 
 
 " I was," replied Henry, in a tone 
 which indicated his deter miniition to finish 
 the conversation. 
 
 " An' what ship did ye belang to .^" con- 
 tinued the undisturbed and unwearied in- 
 quisitor. 
 
 " The Biblia !" said Henry, with a 
 quickness approaching to bitterness, and 
 half determined to bid his companion 
 walk on. 
 
 " The Biblia !" ejaculated the other, 
 and stood still, staring upon Henry with 
 astonishment. " Lord preserve us ! I'll 
 wager ye what ye like, ye're the young 
 officer that was saved by Miss Mary 
 Robertson ! Am I no richt .?" 
 
 " You are," said Henry ; but he could 
 feel anger no more. The mention of his 
 Hilary's name had molten down every an- 
 gry feeling into a semblance of herself. 
 
 " Save us a'', man ! an' are ye him .^'' 
 said the stranger. " She is really an ex- 
 traordinary being, Mary Robertson. My 
 mither ance lived in her faither's parish ; 
 an' I hae heard her rame owre her guid 
 qualities, ti-ll, although I had ne'er seen 
 her then — an' I was double her age, 
 ye may say — as sure as death, I could hae 
 cut my fingers aff, when I thocht that 
 she was a gentle cratur, an' a minister's 
 dochter, an' me nae better than a rough 
 drover ! An' whan I did see her, she was 
 jist exactly what I think the angels will 
 be like — an' better, I'm sure, it's hardly 
 possible for them to be, I'm confident it 
 would tak the langest Lapland winter that 
 e'er darkened snaw, to rin owre but the 
 half o' what I hae heard in her praise, an' 
 ken, frae my ain knowledge, to be fact." 
 
126 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 During this harangue, Henry's feelings 
 became too violent to be suppressed. He 
 accused himself for having harbored a 
 thought against the stranger ; and, ap- 
 proaching his side, grasped his hand in 
 both of his, and gazed in his face with a 
 look of earnestness and emotion, that a 
 single word would have robbed of half its 
 worth. The other returned his pressure, 
 with a fervency that evinced his sympa- 
 thy. 
 
 " Faith, now, that's what I like !" said 
 he ; " that shews sterlin' gratitude ! Grati- 
 tude is like a dumb man speakin' ! Ye 're 
 a noble young chield, I can see by the 
 vera look o' yer e'en ! I could swear by 
 the grip o' yer hand, were it nae mair, 
 that, officer though ye be, ye ne'er made 
 a rope's end come across the back o' a 
 better man than yersel." 
 
 The stranger was bound for Newcastle, 
 and he at once seemed determined that 
 Henry -should be his companion by the 
 wav. On leavino; Lon^framlino-ton in the 
 morning, the noble prospect which the 
 lofty situation of the village commands, 
 compensated for the damp chaff bed and 
 flat ale of the inn. Behind them, rose 
 Cheviot and the Scottish hills ; to their 
 right, the mountains of Cumberland were 
 visible ; and between, the long, broad, ir- 
 regular valley, with its hundred farms — a 
 nursery for rivers, and receptacle of up- 
 land streams ; to their left, the sea — the 
 Coquet Isle ; and proud vessels were seen 
 rejoicing on their course, as if conscious 
 of their own magnificent beauty, bending 
 their stately prows to the passing billow, 
 and again rising in majesty, like a proud 
 steed pawing the earth, bending its neck 
 of thunder, and tossing it again in the air, 
 in the pride of regal sublimity and con- 
 scious strength. Before them spread a 
 deep plain, through which winded the Co- 
 quet and the Wansbeck. 
 
 " Damp beds are a bad thing for the 
 rheumatism," said Willie, as they reached 
 the bridge over the former river ; " an' 
 they sell an excellent preventive here in 
 
 the Angler's Inn. It's nae use palaver- 
 ing," continued he, as Henry remonstrat- 
 ed — " I tell ye it's nae use palavering ; 
 there's a lang road before us afore bed- 
 time." 
 
 It would be an endless task, however, 
 to foUow our worthy drover through his 
 houses of call, at which he felt a habitual 
 thirst that he conceived to be natural. 
 During most of the day, according to the 
 adage, it did not rain but poured. The 
 roads became at first clammy, and in the 
 end almost impassable. At length, 
 drenched, wo-begone, and bespattered 
 with mud, like two spirits escaped from 
 the Deluge, they reached Newcastle, and 
 silently bent their steps down Northum- 
 berland Street. The rain abated none of 
 its violence, and again Henry regretted 
 the prodigality of his generosity, in part- 
 ing with the entire contents of his purse. 
 He had slept none the jDreceding night. 
 Misery, fatigue, and the long continuance 
 of the cold bleaching rain, battled in his 
 heart, and pressed upon his pride, with a 
 weight that caused it to bend, though it 
 could not break it. He drew his breath 
 quick and short. An anxious, disquiet 
 feeling, approaching to peevishness, seem- 
 ed stickins; in his throat, and he lonfred 
 that his companion would speak of Tialting 
 for the night. After proceeding down Nor- 
 thumberland and Pilgrim Streets, nearly a 
 mile in a direct line, Willie, halting before 
 a gateway, said — " Now, I usually stop 
 down here, at the Bird an' Bush ; it's a kind 
 o' carrier's quarters ; but, ye see, the 
 like o' the York Hotel is aboon my fit ; 
 an' I'll answer for our beins: comfortable. 
 Come awa — faith we'll hae a nicht o't ! 
 A jug o' boiling brandy, mistress, for twa 
 drowned men I" shouted he, as they en- 
 tered the house. 
 
 Next morning, Henry desired his friend 
 to favor him with his address. 
 
 " Now, what are ye driving at, Mr. 
 Walton .?" said Willie, eagerly, and with 
 a degree of sorrow; "ye are sm'ely no 
 thinkin' o' leavin' me already. Stay a 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 127 
 
 day or twa, man, to see the toiin. Ye 
 see, Fm here about a bit lawsuit ; an' if 
 I dinna get it settled here, I dinna ken 
 but I may hae to gang up to London. The 
 matter o' five thousand pounds is worth 
 the lookin' after ! Hoots ! dinna say ony 
 mair about partin' yet — will ye no, Mr. 
 Walton ?" 
 
 His honest and unsophisticated kind- 
 ness was oppressive to his young compan- 
 ion, whose first wish was an opportunity 
 to reward him. 
 
 " Whether we talk of parting or not," 
 said Henry, " let me, at least, have the 
 happiness of knowing where to find you 
 hereafter." 
 
 " Weel," replied the other, " onybody 
 kens whar to find Wull Watson, o' Finch- 
 ley-hill, by Edrom, in the county o' Ber- 
 wick. I maun awa oot, an' see my attor- 
 ney body. But noo, mind, Mr. Walton, 
 dinna be oot o' the way at denner-time ; 
 I tak it exactly at ane o'clock." 
 
 Henry being left alone, walked to the 
 quayside, with the hope of finding a vessel 
 in which he might obtain a passage for 
 
 London ; where, 
 
 he conceived, it would 
 
 not be difficult, amidst his own or his fa- 
 ther's friends to procure the advance of a 
 sum sufficient to defray the expense of con- 
 veyance and overcome his embarrassments. 
 
 A neat-looking brig was clearing out, 
 and on the eve of sailing. He stepped 
 aboard, and inquired if he could be ac- 
 commodated with a passage to London. 
 
 " Like enough," said the mate , who 
 was busied in giving directions for haul- 
 ing oil; "but go aft, and speak to the 
 master." 
 
 A black, porky, surly-faced man, in a 
 shabby blue surtout, like a cloak thrown 
 over a barrel, stood smoking a pipe by the 
 side of the companion, and overlooking 
 the preparations for sailing. To him Hen- 
 ry repeated his question. 
 
 " A passage ' — why — yes," said the 
 skipper ; " thou mayst have a passage ; 
 but where's thy luggage } — we be hauling 
 off." 
 
 This was a question for which Henry 
 was unprepared ; and his momentary hesi- 
 tation did not escape the lynx-eyed tyrant 
 of the brig, who immediately added — 
 " You've got none, eh ? Well — all's one 
 wi' us ; a guinea and a half, if you please, 
 sir. That is wur usual fare — we make 
 nyae reduction for want o' luggage, lad. 
 Be quick, if ye please, sir — hang it ! d'ye 
 see, they are taking away the planks !" 
 
 On Henry's assuring him he would be 
 paid on their arriving at London — 
 " Ashore ! ye swindling scamp !" vocifer- 
 ated the skipper. " Ashore ! — or, by the 
 Lord Harry ! I'll chuck ye overboard ! 
 Here's a precious scoundrel !" cried he 
 to the people on the quay — " tried to 
 humbug mye out of a passage !" 
 
 Henry would have felled him to the 
 deck, but he immediately sought protec- 
 tion among his crew ; and the vessel being 
 then about ten feet from the shore, he 
 sprang upon the bulwarks, and with reck- 
 less violence threw himself into the midst 
 of the assembled crowd. Those who the 
 instant before were prepared to receive 
 him with hootings, gathered around him in 
 wonder ; some declaring, he had made " a 
 clean jump of five yards !" 
 
 Rage, and the tumult of his troubled 
 feelings, flashed from his eyes. He pressed 
 through the throng like a madman. Many 
 were wistful to offer him a kindness, but 
 quailed at the wild haughtiness of his 
 looks. The face of man sickened him. In 
 every eye, he read suspicion and scrutiny ; 
 and hurrying across the bridge, and up 
 Gateshead, he turned off the road into the 
 fields, and threw himself down by the side 
 of a deserted coal-mine, in secret to give 
 vent to the bitterness of his spirit. 
 
 The day passed, and the boisterous ago- 
 ny of his bosom subsided into a gnawing 
 calmness. At midnight, he arose shiver- 
 ins; and benumbed, the night damp drip- 
 ping from his glossy hair, and turned to- 
 wards the town. He felt he would rather 
 die than again be dependent on the gene- 
 rosity of his late fellow-traveller. 
 
128 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Well, of all teasing tortures, sure the worst 
 
 Is. on some tedious journey, to be curst 
 
 In a compauion, vvitli a sliapcless thing 
 
 Clad in the scrapings of an insect's wing ! 
 
 A pert vain fop, a libertine, and fool, 
 
 Who minces oaths per rood, and walks by rule ; — 
 
 The barber's nightmare dream I — the tailor's dread !- 
 
 Who, if you cannot sleep, will "talk you dead 1" 
 
 Who deems his sickly face, and scented glove, 
 
 Sufficient charms for every lady's love ; 
 
 Nor doubts the brightness of his tortured hair, 
 
 To be a passport to insult the fair I 
 
 Mary's friends, who assembled to bid 
 her adieu, had again returned, weeping, 
 on their way to Burnpath. She had parted 
 with the lingering few who attended her 
 to the coach, seen their hands waved, and 
 heard their farewell — " God bless you /" 
 pronounced with tears ; but her own cheeks 
 were still dry. Yet their clear paleness, 
 and melancholy expression, appeared like 
 a marble sanctuary of grief, lighted by the 
 lamp of sorrow which burned within. Her 
 youth, and the elegance of her figure, ren- 
 dered still more interesting by her garb 
 of mourning, which cast its deep shadows 
 over the ivory purity of her beauty, sin- 
 gled her out as an object of sympathy to 
 some, and of admiration and scrutiny to 
 all her fellow-passengers. 
 
 It was a beautiful March morninir, 
 ruffled only by a breeze from the south- 
 west, which, although not cold, was occa- 
 sionally too strong to be pleasant. The 
 whins were already adorning the barren 
 heath with their golden covering ; and, as 
 they approached the northern extremity 
 of the mountains, in a moment, spring re- 
 joiced in the song of the lark and the la- 
 bors of the husbandman. The empire of 
 sterility was suddenly stayed in the pride 
 of its desolation ; and a straight line, 
 stretching from the sea as far as the eye 
 could reach, seemed to declare — " Hither- 
 to shalt thou come, and no farther ;" 
 while in summer the heather put forth its 
 gorgeous blossoms, and the strong wheat, 
 towering by its side, waved gracefully over 
 it ; the one touching the other, and each 
 thriving in the strength of its own true 
 region. 
 
 Mary's travelling companions grew cla- 
 morous in their admiration of the scene ; 
 and a small gentleman, who was deter- 
 mined to be nothing, if not critical, 
 checked what he considered their want of 
 taste, by observing that the landscape was 
 spoiled by too great a proportion of water. 
 While another remarked, that " he was 
 perfectly of his opinion, and thought that 
 the country would be much finer, were it 
 not for the fir trees, and others that he did 
 not know the name of." 
 
 " By my faith ! but ye are twa judges, 
 I warrant ye !" said a sturdy countryman, 
 with an equally sturdy cudgel between his 
 knees, and who had hitherto devoted his 
 attention exclusively to a sagacious-looking 
 dog which occupied a place by his side — 
 " ye are twa judges, without a doot ! 
 Wud and water destroy a landscape ! 
 Was ye born in a coal-pit, gentlemen ! — 
 or in the region round about Bow-Bells, 
 where the smoke and the trees, I under- 
 stand, are meikle o' a color } I thocht 
 yer famous Doctor Johnson said we hadna 
 a tree in a' our country !" 
 
 To these sarcastic and half unintelligible 
 observations, the young gentlemen deemed 
 it prudent to be silent ; and the first- 
 mentioned connoisseur — who appeared to 
 have been brought to the coach in a band- 
 box, fresh from the hands of his tailor — 
 with the impudent and unfeeling efi'rontery 
 of an empty coxcomb, who considers his 
 own insio-nificant form and disaixreeable 
 foce irresistible, commenced an attack 
 upon Mary, who had hitherto remained 
 silent, playing oif his impertinent badinage, 
 to the edification of his own ear, and the 
 annoyance of all around him. But she, 
 buried in her own thoughts, did not even 
 deign to answer him with one monosyllable 
 — with one glance of scorn. An angry 
 scowl, from time to time, was given by 
 the countryman, who sat facing him ; and 
 another from the dog, that looked in its 
 master's face, and, cat<chiug the expres- 
 sion of his eyes, gave a low growl, indi- 
 cating its wish to punish the object of his 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 129 
 
 resentment. The young gentleman, how- 
 ever, still affected to despise the displea- 
 sure of his plebeian fellow-traveller ; and, 
 throughout two stages, he continued to 
 persecute, with ill-timed mirth and vul- 
 garity, which he mistook for wit, the 
 lovely and unprotected being whom chance 
 had thrown for a few hours by his side. 
 Sinkins: beneath the weio-ht of her sor- 
 
 O O 
 
 rows, she was resting her brow pensively 
 on her hand, when the coach stopped for 
 a few minutes at an inn by the way-side ; 
 where her loquacious companion, whose 
 assumed familiarity now amounted to in- 
 solence, having called for a glass of brandy 
 and water, attempted to pull her hand 
 from her face, saying — " Come, my pretty 
 dummie, if you can't speak, you can per- 
 haps drink !" 
 
 " Drink yersel', ye infernal impudent 
 puppy !" exclaimed the countryman ; and, 
 at the same instant, raising his cudgel, he 
 dashed the glass in a hundred pieces, 
 spilling the brandy and water on the inex- 
 pressibles of the exquisite, and causing the 
 blood to gush from the ends of his fingers, 
 which had received part of the blow. 
 
 " Scoundrel i" vociferated the tremblins: 
 pattern of the fashions, half choked with 
 pain and passion, while he stretched out, 
 at arm's length, his gentle fingers, drip- 
 ping with gore ; and casting a rueful look 
 at his soiled cassimeres, added — " Scoun- 
 drel ! you shall answer for this !" 
 
 " No a word oot o' yer head ! ye un- 
 mannerly vagabond!" cried the other; 
 " no a word oot o' yer head ! — or there's 
 the grund for ye I" 
 
 And, suiting the action to the word, he 
 seized him neck and heel, and the next 
 moment the thing of " shreds and patch- 
 es," his fashionables covered with March 
 dust, was weeping, and mincing genteel 
 oaths upon the pavement. 
 
 " Let him lie there, and be hano-ed to 
 him," said the countryman ; " he deserves 
 a' he's got." 
 
 " No, no !" interrupted Mary ; " let no 
 one suffer upon my account. The io-no- 
 
 voL. ir. 9 
 
 ranee of the young man is his sufficient 
 punishment." 
 
 " I wad say that wad be bad logic, 
 ma'am, in a court o' law," said her cham- 
 pion ; '^ but, howsever, if I helped the 
 insignificant cratur doon, I'll help him up 
 again." 
 
 He leaped from the coach, raised the 
 gentleman like a child in his arms, and 
 placed him again in his former seat, re- 
 marking — " Noo, see that ye be quiet till 
 we get to Edinburgh, least a warse thing 
 happen ye. But I didna intend to smash 
 yer bits o' leddy-like fingers, after a'. 
 Are they sair hurt .?" And taking them 
 in his own Herculean fist to examine them, 
 he inquired — " Has ony o' ye a bit rag .^" 
 The coach drove off; and Mary, hav- 
 ing dressed the wounds of her late tor- 
 mentor, he hung his head upon his breast, 
 and was silent during the rest of the jour- 
 ney. 
 
 For some tune they had seen Arthur's 
 Seat uprearing, in bold magnificence, its 
 stony front, and bearing, even at this 
 view, some resemblance to a lion preparino- 
 to spring upon its prey ; together with the 
 Calton Hill and its observatory ; and the 
 proud castle, high towering in gigantic 
 majesty between them, like the genius of 
 war, defying its thunderbolts. And now 
 the fair City of Palaces, glistening in the 
 sun, opened to their right, like a sea of 
 silver ; while, to their left, grey and ve- 
 nerable with years, rose pile upon pile, 
 house rising upon house, in eccentric but 
 sublime array, bearing the shapes of de- 
 parted ages ; and their hoary summits, 
 partly veiled in the cloudy columns which 
 floated around them, seemed like the 
 ghosts of time, looking down, '' more in 
 sorrow than in anger," from their irregular 
 and strong towers, on the beauty and order 
 of modern improvements ; while Leith, 
 stretching out its arms to embrace it, and 
 a hundred fair gardens smiling around 
 their union, with the blue Frith circling 
 them, and bearing the wealth of other na- 
 tions to their threshold, make Edinburgh 
 
130 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 appear, to the eye of the traveller, one of 
 earth's fairest cities. 
 
 On their stopping at the Black Bull, 
 the countryman sprang first to the ground, 
 and, with the air of a cavalier, politely 
 assisted Mary from the coach. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, ma'am," said he ; 
 ^'but, as I ken ye are a stranger, if ye 
 will alloo me, I'll just tak yer bit trunk 
 under my arm, and show ye to ony place 
 ye may be gaun to ; for I ken every fit o' 
 Edinburgh, jist as weel as I ken Burnpath 
 or Cowdingham." 
 
 She expressed her gratitude for his 
 kindness ; but begged that he would not 
 think of burdening himself with her trunk. 
 " Burden ! hinny !" said he ; "I wush 
 I micht ne'er hae a greater burden, than 
 to carry it back th' nicht again, to whar it 
 cam frae ! Mind ye, thae cadie an' por- 
 ter bodies are extortionable craturs, whan 
 they get baud o' ony ane that they think 
 they can impose upon. And, throwing 
 the trunk upon his shoulder, he added, 
 " Now, ma'am, if ye'll just say whar ye 
 wish to gang, I'm at yer service." 
 
 Mary knew but little of Edinburgh, and 
 that little appeared to her like the broken 
 remembrance of a dream. She was here 
 without friends, almost without an 
 acquaintance ; and the only individual 
 whose house she could look to as a tem- 
 porary home, during her stay in the Scot- 
 tish capital was a commercial gentleman, 
 called Lindsay, residing in Brown Square, 
 who had been highly esteemed by, and 
 was distantly related to her father. On 
 her signifying a wish to be conducted 
 there — "To Brown Square!" said the 
 countryman, whom the reader will have 
 perceived was no other than Willie Wat- 
 son, the Berwickshire drover — " To Brown 
 Square ! — ye shall be there in ten minutes. 
 An', besides, it wunna tak me oot o' my 
 way in the least, for my line o' business, 
 ma'am, lies in the Grassmarket ; an' I 
 can just w4iup down Merchant Court, an' 
 be there in a jiffy after seein' ye safe." 
 On arrivino; at the house of Mr. Lind- 
 
 say, the footboy who opened the door 
 stated that his master was in Glasgow, and 
 that Mrs. Lindsay and daughters were at 
 home, but were then dressing, in order to 
 go out to an evening party. Mary's heart 
 felt sick. There was a coldness in the 
 accent and manner of the very boy. She 
 knew Mr. Lindsay only ; his wife and 
 dauo-hters she had never seen. She hesi- 
 tated in what manner she should give in 
 her name, and her confusion became visi- 
 ble. She was shown into a parlor, and 
 Willie, having placed her trunk in the 
 passage, seemed anxious to witness her 
 reception before leaving ; but Mary took 
 his hand, thanked him for his friendly care 
 and attention, and desired that, if possible, 
 she might see him again before he left 
 town. 
 
 " Ye may depend on that, ma'am," 
 said he, " ye may depend on that" — and 
 a tear stole down his weather-beaten cheek 
 — " I wad hae liket to see hoo ye are to 
 be situated before I left ye ; but, although 
 I am only a plain farmer, I'm no insensi- 
 ble o' what is due to guid breedin'. Sae 
 I'll bid ye guid-day the noo, ma'am ; but 
 I'll mak it my business to ca' the morn, 
 afore I gang east again ; an', if ye hae 
 ony word to send, I wul tak it as a favor 
 to be the bearer." 
 
 The honest drover, making a slight bow, 
 worth all the formal suppleness of super- 
 ficial politeness, took his leave. Mary re- 
 membered having seen him formerly ; and 
 had heard him spoken of, but only as a 
 wi'estler and a pugilist, whose quarrels 
 were in the mouth of every one, and the 
 terror of a peaceable neighborhood. But 
 now she could only look upon him as a 
 warm-hearted man, who, whatever were 
 his faults, could not be destitute of re- 
 deeming virtues. 
 
 " Half-an-hour passed, and she was still 
 left to muse upon her reception, without 
 seeing either IMrs. Lindsay or her daugh- 
 ters. She felt it as an indignity to a 
 friendless orphan — to the only child of a 
 man who befriended them, and placed 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 131 
 
 them in the path of fortune. She had 
 arisen with the intention of leaving the 
 house, and seeking' a lodsjina; elsewhere, 
 when Mrs. Lindsay and her three daugh- 
 ters, rustling in a gaudy and tasteless dis- 
 play of showy silk, rich brocade, and 
 Brussels lace, with head-dresses as ri- 
 diculous and unnatural as silver tissue, 
 golden ears of corn, artilBcial hair, and the 
 wearied fingers of their maid could make 
 them, sailed into the room. Each in her 
 turn slid towards Mary, like a boat glid- 
 ing for a few yards by a single stroke of 
 the oars — halted within three feet, like a 
 young recruit at the word of command — 
 dropped a low and graceful congee — gent- I 
 ly extended the tip of her fore-finger — I 
 smiled — whispered — and withdrew to a i 
 chair. j 
 
 The mother and daughters having paid ' home, and we are just going out to a party, 
 their formal salutations to their visiter — i so that you see the thing is quite impossi- 
 " You look shockingly pale, child," said i ble — wc cannot leave Miss Robertson 
 
 wine," said the youngest daughter, whose 
 heart was not touched by the frigid afiec- 
 tation of her mother and sisters ; and she 
 hastened to present it. 
 
 " I am sorry Mr. Lindsay is from 
 home," added the matron, " and we do 
 not expect him before to-morrow. Do 
 you intend making any stay in town .^" 
 
 " Only a few days," rejoined Mary. 
 
 '' And perhaps you have not procured a 
 lodging."' inquired the other. 
 
 " Oh, dear mamma," replied the young- 
 est, who at that moment entered with the 
 wine, " I am sure Miss Robertson will 
 have no objections to sleep with me; and, 
 if she only do, I shall be so happy." 
 
 " True, child !" returned the mother ; 
 " and I should be very happy if she 
 would : but remember your father is from 
 
 the former ; " don't you think so, girls .?" 
 And again turning to Mary — " I believe 
 your father and Mr. Lindsay were ac- 
 quainted — were they not .^" 
 
 " They were^ ma'am," answered Mary, 
 shocked at the cool indifference of a ques- 
 tion so little to have been anticipated. 
 
 " Your father is dead lately, I think 
 my husband was saying," returned the 
 other. 
 
 Mary could only reply, " Yes !" 
 
 She would have wept, but indignation 
 at the unfeeling ingratitude of the other 
 withheld her tears. 
 
 '' And met with his death rather unfor- 
 tunately too, did he not V continued Mrs. 
 Lindsay. 
 
 This was too much. A crowd of thoughts 
 and recollections flashed at once upon 
 her bosom ; she replied only with a sigh, 
 and the tears burst forth. 
 
 " Nay, do not distress yourself, dear 
 child," said the wife of her father's friend 
 — " those sort of things will happen, you 
 know ; and our tears will do no good." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Robertson is fatigued 
 with her journey and will take a glass of 
 
 alone." 
 
 " Nay, nay, mamma," said the daugh- 
 ter ; " you and sisters can give my apolo- 
 gies to Lady Sillerdykes (should she dis- 
 cover I am absent), and I shall remain at 
 home to bear Miss Robertson company, 
 which will give me a great deal more 
 pleasure." 
 
 *' Do not name it, my dear friend," said 
 Mary; "you nor anyone shall make a 
 sacrifice of enjoyment for me. 1 have met 
 with trials more severe than the procuring 
 of a lodging, or passing a night alone." 
 
 " She is the most foolish, wilful girl in 
 the world," resumed the mother. " To 
 talk of not going to my Lady's — when — 
 would you believe it, Miss Robertson .? — 
 these four dresses, which were made for 
 the occasion, cost one hundred and twenty 
 pounds ! For the life of me, I don't know 
 what her father will say when the bill is 
 presented ! And yet to talk of not going ! 
 — not going, indeed ! Do you suppose if 
 you will not appear in public, that your 
 father is to keep you in private all your 
 life !" 
 
 " La ! now mamma '" said the laughing 
 
132 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS, 
 
 girl, how you do talk ! Get husbands for 
 sisters before you think of me." 
 
 As she spoke, a loud knocking was heard 
 at the front door. Mrs. Lindsay bit her 
 lips — the two elder sisters looked to each 
 other in dismay. The youngest flew smil- 
 ing to the passage, and entered, holding 
 her father's hand, saying — " Miss Robert- 
 son, father — your friend — my friend — 
 from Burnpath." 
 
 " Miss Robertson !'" exclaimed Mr. 
 Lindsay, who had unexpectedly returned. 
 He hurried forward, pressed her hand 
 fervidly within his. He gazed on her face 
 for a few moments with silent tenderness ; 
 and, at length, in a voice broken with 
 emotion, said — " Welcome ! welcome, be- 
 loved child of my best friend ! — welcome 
 to my house — to your home !" Still 
 holding her hands, and turning to his wife 
 and daucrhters — " Behold," said he, " all 
 
 O 7 7 
 
 that remains of our fir«t benefactor ! Mrs. 
 Lindsay, henceforth be to her a mother ; 
 children, regard her as a sister." 
 
 "Oh, I am sure I shall," said the 
 youngest, fondly smiling in her face — 
 " and love her too." 
 
 " At present," said Mary, " I shall be 
 with you but a few days ; but for your 
 affection for my beloved father, accept his 
 orphan's tears — accept her gratitude." 
 
 " Let it be for a few days, or for a few 
 years," added Mr. Lindsay — " whatever 
 is mine, you may at all times command." 
 
 Mrs. Lindsay now endeavored, by over- 
 "wrought civility, to atone for her past in- 
 difference. And having, as she conceived, 
 by her attentions and protestations of af- 
 fection for Mary, sufficiently delighted her 
 husband to venture upon informing him of 
 the invitation to Lady Siller dykes — '' My 
 love," said she, with an endeariufj smile, 
 " would you believe it ! — my lady Siller- 
 dykes has sent your daughters and me the 
 kindest invitation in the world, to attend 
 her party to-night ! There is to be a 
 Marquis there ! — several lords ! — and I 
 
 don't know how many baronets !" 
 
 " And needy fortune-hunters," added her 
 
 husband, " ruined gamesters, and cor- 
 rupters of morals, ad libitum.'''' 
 
 ^'Oh! shocking, love!'' replied Mrs. 
 Lindsay ; " you really distress me ! — you 
 are always so cjTiical ! But you know, if 
 you won't, I must take our children into 
 society, like other people. And, with our 
 prospects, the present honor, I assure you, 
 my dear, is not to be overlooked." 
 
 " Oh ! doubtless ! doubtless !" said Mr. 
 Lindsay, V7ith a sarcastic smile ; " its ad- 
 vantages will be incalculable !" 
 
 The worthy merchant, not having deem- 
 ed it prudent to set up his own carriage, 
 and Brown Square being but indifferently 
 situated for the approach of one, Mrs. 
 Lindsay and her two daughters had the 
 mortification of walking to the College, to 
 procure a hackney-coach ; in which mise- 
 rable vehicle they were to come in con- 
 tact with the coroneted and crested equi- 
 pages of their companions for the night, in 
 the Crescent. 
 
 In the company of Mr. Lindsay and his 
 youngest daughter, Mary forgot the insult- 
 ing coldness of her reception. She un- 
 disguisedly related to him all the events 
 which had recently transpired at Burn- 
 path ; save one — one on which all the rest 
 in a measure revolved — her own mar- 
 A.nd this she wished not to con- 
 
 nacre. 
 
 ceal from him — but feared, and knew not 
 how to communicate it. It was known to 
 but few beyond Burnpath ; and until she 
 should see Henry, or hear from him, she 
 knew not how far she might act wisely in 
 divulging it ; and his mysterious silence, 
 since his departure, increased her hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 Next day, Willie Watson strode across 
 Brown Square, " To inquire after the bit 
 lassie," as he said ; " for he feared, as far 
 as he could judge, she wad meet wi' but a 
 blae reception !" 
 
 He had heard of her marriage with 
 Henry ; and his name being at the mo- 
 ment uppermost in his thoughts, on the 
 servant opening the door, he inquired — 
 " Is Mrs. Walton within, this morning.?" 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 13:i 
 
 " There is no' such person here," said 
 the boy, attempting to shut the door.- 
 
 ^' Nae sic person here !" said Willie, 
 intercepting him with hia foot — " Nae sic 
 person here, do ye say ? What's come 
 owre her then ? Did 1 no bring her trunk 
 here yesterday ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Walton !— beg pardoa !— 
 yes, yes ! I had forgotten !" said the crafty 
 urchin, while a laughing devil twinkled at 
 the corners of his eyes ; and hurrying to 
 the parlor, where Mary was sitting with 
 Mrs. Lindsay and family — " A person 
 wishes to speak with Mrs. Walton j''"' sa:id 
 he. 
 
 " Mrs. Walton !" responded all, raising 
 their eyes inquiringly — " Mrs. Walton I" 
 
 She trembled — blushed — cast her eyes 
 upon the ground — shed a sudden tear — 
 and, rising with the dignity of a princess^ 
 laid her hand upon Mr. Lindsay's, saying 
 — " Yes, my dear friend, I am Mrs. Wal- 
 ton ; hereafter you shall know all. Show 
 the stranger to me." 
 
 " How singular !" ejaculated Mrs. 
 Lindsay. 
 
 ^' Did you ever!'^ exclaimed Miss 
 Lindsay, in the attitude of adoration. 
 
 '' Such a discovery !" cried her sister. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Mrs. Walton !" said 
 the youngest, leaping towards her, " and 
 you are married, are you } Well, I wish 
 you joy with my whole heart." 
 
 " 1 trust I may rejoice that it is so, my 
 amiable friend," replied Mr. Lindsay; 
 " but reveal nothinjx to me which it would 
 give you pain to relate." 
 
 Willie Watson was heard stalking; alono; 
 the passage, shaking the walls " with 
 thundering tread." Making his best bow 
 to the company, and firmly smoothing 
 down his hair over his forehead, as he be- 
 gan to speak, he be<?-an also to smooth 
 round his hat ; and, continuing to turn it 
 in his hand, said — " I ask your pardon, 
 leddies, and yours, too, sir, for coming in 
 amang ye in a figure like this ; for it 
 doesna do to be owre particular in my 
 line o' life. But, ye see, having a great 
 
 reo;ard for Mrs. Walton's connexions — 
 the memory o' her worthy faither in par- 
 ticular — no to mention that the like o' me 
 has even the honor o' being familiar, I may 
 say, wi' her worthy husband, the son o' 
 the great Sir Robert Walton o' Devon- 
 shire, ye ken, that (I saw it in the papers' 
 myseP) gied twa thousand pounds, no lang 
 syne, for an Arawbian mare — I say, no 
 even to mention this, coming to the toun 
 wi' her yesterday, I couldna think o' gaun 
 hame till I heard how she was situated, an' 
 to see if she has ony word to send east by 
 to Berwickshire." 
 
 Kis professing acquaintance with Hen- 
 ry, rendered him doubly interesting to 
 Mary, and she more than forgave the con- 
 fusion he caused by the betrayal of her 
 secret. He further had mentioned cir- 
 cumstances relating to her husband's fa- 
 mily with which she was unacquainted ; 
 and, with the natural energy of her man- 
 ner, she thanked him for the kindly inte- 
 rest he manifested in her behalf. Mr. 
 Lindsay, to testify the sincerity of his 
 welcome, placed him a chair beside his 
 own, and ordered a morning dram. (A 
 false and pernicious token of hospitality, 
 which we trust to see exploded for ever.) 
 One glass begot another ; and between 
 Mr. Lindsay and the drover, an acquaint- 
 ance that had been forgotten for almost 
 thirty years was revived. The elder 
 Misses Lindsay and their mother, were 
 forgetting the shock they sustained on the 
 entrance of the unpolished figure before 
 them, in their redoubled attentions to the 
 — wife of a Baronet's son ! — when the 
 Honorable Timothy Higgins was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 " Oh ! shocking !" exclaimed Miss 
 Lindsay, rising in perturbation — ^' and 
 that odious man ! — show the gentleman 
 into the drawing-room." 
 
 Mr. Lindsay was at this moment in the 
 midst of a school adventure, in which 
 Willie Watson and himself had been the 
 principal actors. 
 
 " The Honorable Fiddle-de-dee !" said 
 
134 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 he, baTing heard the words ^' odious man," 
 applied to his old school-fellow — " Show 
 him in here. I certainly am entitled to 
 see that no honorable visitors to my house 
 be dishonorable. Show him in here." 
 " Oh ! horrid ! — Mr. Lindsay, you are 
 
 the most unaccountable man" said 
 
 Mrs. Lindsay. 
 
 " My love !'' replied the husband. 
 " I'll be bidding ye guid-day, Mr. 
 Lindsay," said Willie ; '' for, although I 
 hae the honor to be acquainted wi' Mr. 
 Walton, I maun say, after a', that drovers 
 arena just the kind o' company that yer 
 Honorables, and Richt Honorables, wad 
 like to sit doun wi' ; though cast off the 
 bit coat, an' they wad maybe find wha is 
 the best man, for a' that." 
 
 " Be seated," said Mr. Lindsay ; 
 " whoever may come, my house is large 
 enough for an old friend." 
 
 Mr. Higgins had arrived on the pre- 
 ceding day from England, was at Lady 
 Sillerdj^kcs' soiree in the evening, and hav- 
 ing escorted the Misses Lindsay and their 
 mother home, had sent in his card to pay 
 his respects to the ladies in the morning. 
 Miss Lindsay was his partner during the 
 evening ; and she had already informed 
 Mary that he was a divine creature, though 
 his form was rather petit ; and he had had 
 the misfortune, a few weeks ago, as he told 
 her, to have his right hand wounded in an 
 affair of honor, which caused him at pre- 
 sent to wear it in a sling, and rendered 
 him indescribably interesting. 
 
 The mighty Mr. Higgins now entered, 
 in all the imposing dignity of five feet two ; 
 bowed, smiled— bent his body — begged 
 they would excuse his misfortune ; saw 
 Mary — blushed, shook — turned his eyes 
 to the farther end of the room — started, 
 and almost fainted at the feet of the ladies ! 
 Mary slightly, and somewhat disdainfully, 
 returned his confused bow. Mr. Lindsay 
 was rising to welcome him, when, to the 
 horror of all, Willie Watson stalked across 
 the floor, offered his hand to the Honora- 
 ble and petrified Mr. Higgins, saying — 
 
 " Weel, sir, hoo's a' wi' ye the day ? 
 Hoo's your fingers } I'm very sorry for 
 that bit lick I gied them yesterday V 
 
 Mr. Higgins trembled — perspired — 
 grew pale — stuttered he would call again 
 — turned his back upon the drover, and 
 muttering something about the engage- 
 ments, to the astonishment of the ladies, 
 bowed, blushed, and backed out of the 
 room. 
 
 ^' I fear, my, dears," said Mr. Lindsay, 
 " your Honorable has met with a sur- 
 prise ; — he has made but a short visit." 
 
 " The less o' his company the better," 
 said Willie, " if we may judge by the spe- 
 cimen Mrs. Walton an' me had o' it on 
 the coach yesterday." 
 
 He then narrated his impertinent con- 
 duct towards IMary, and bursting into a 
 loud laugh, said — " But it wad hae been 
 nae joke, after a', if I had left his bits o' 
 honorable fingers on the road, for the 
 crows to build their nest wi'. Mrs. Wal- 
 ton," continued Willie, as he rose to de- 
 part, " if I micht mak sae free as to ask a 
 favor, ye wad greatly oblige me b}^ a word 
 or twa in private." 
 
 This being granted, he proceeded — " I 
 I was just wishing to ken, ma'am — if it's 
 no impertinent in me to ask — when ye 
 heard frae Mr. Walton. For, to tell ye 
 the truth, ma'am, I like him maist as weel 
 as ye can do yersel'. I gaed frae Dunse 
 to Newcastle wi' him ; an' four happier 
 days I never spent in my life. He invited 
 me, if ever I was up in the south, to come 
 ower and spend a while at his faither's. 
 But I've heard naetliiu' o' him since he 
 left Newcastle." 
 
 He forebore alluding to the nature of 
 Henry's disappearance, or the circum- 
 stances attending it ; for what he wanted 
 in politeness he had supplied to him in 
 feeling. It was a question which, of all 
 others, Mary would have avoided ; for 
 the thouo-ht that she had not heard from 
 Henry was her deepest affliction. But 
 she could not tell a falsehood ; and, least 
 of all, to one who gloried in the thought 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 135 
 
 of being her husband's friend, and who had 
 acted as hers. Melting into tears, she re- 
 plied, that she had not. 
 
 Willie drew his coat sleeve across his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Forgie me, ma'am I — forgie me for 
 askin' ye," said he ; " but I expect to be 
 in London very soon ; an', if I dinna see 
 you in Devonshire^ I'll at least bring ye 
 word frae it ! Guid-day the noo, ma'am ! 
 — guid-day!" And again drawing his 
 sleeve across his eyes, the good-natured 
 drover bent his way to the Grassmarket. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Withering and scorching as the eye of God, 
 Is the proud glance of injured innocence, 
 When bent by woman upon worthless man. 
 For, what are threatening frowns, or strength of arm, 
 While virtue grasps omnipotence, and wields 
 The burning electricity of heaven, 
 At which a giant trembles ! To behold 
 A woman fixed as death — deep, calmly desperate- 
 Read}^ to die, and die with dignity — 
 Weaxing her honor in her life's last blood — 
 Makes naught the fiercest purposes of man, 
 And buries passion in his blushing soul ! 
 Or who could view the tear steal silent down 
 The cheek where beauty blossomed, ere the winds 
 Of misery nipped its roses in tlieir bud, 
 I'lor beg that he might chase that tear awa3% 
 Though falling for au enemy ? — Or feel 
 His heart burst forth — his hand already raised 
 To strike Ia her defence. For woman's tears 
 Are as a sovereign's voice whom all men love ; 
 And there is neither left the will, nor power. 
 To stand a rebel to their fond appeal. 
 
 On the day after leaving the worthy 
 drover, Henry Walton obtained a passage 
 to London, from whence he found but lit- 
 tle difficulty in pursuing his journey to his 
 father's house. 
 
 Now, when Henry Walton returned to 
 Buekham Priory, the seat of his ancestors, 
 he found that his parents were from home ; 
 and there accompanied him from London 
 a Sir Mark Wallingford — a gay man and 
 a man of the world, but withal a heartless 
 man. 
 
 Henry longed for the return of his pa- 
 rents, that he mioht acknowledo;e to them 
 his marriage with Mary Robertson, and 
 that he might hear their lips pronounce 
 her their daui2;hter. 
 
 One morning, as Sir Mark was passing 
 through the hall, he perceived a letter, in 
 a fine female hand, addressed to Henry, 
 and bearing a Scottish post-mark. It was 
 a temptation he could not resist. He took 
 up the letter and placed it in his pocket. 
 " A Scottish Venus !" said he—" A 
 Greenland dove !" The letter was from 
 Mary, announcing her intention of leaving 
 Scotland for her husband. The words, 
 husband and wife, with which the letter 
 began, were lost upon Wallingford. He 
 resolved to proceed to London, and there 
 wait the arrival of his friend's northern 
 rosebud. 
 
 When Mary, therefore, arrived in Lon- 
 don, she found Sir Mark Wallingford there 
 to receive her in her husband's name, 
 whom he said he expected from Devon- 
 shire daily. The appearance of the house 
 to which he conducted her, was not in 
 keeping with his professions ; yet she had 
 no suspicion. 
 
 A day, however, did not pass, until the 
 villain unmasked the villainy of his soul. 
 It was now that all the energy of Mary's 
 character was revealed. The villain felt 
 himself crouch in her presence ; and, al- 
 though he at first ordered the landlady to 
 keep her a prisoner, that personage soon 
 tired of acting jailer, without knowing who 
 was to pay. His threatenings and his 
 visits ceased. 
 
 One day, the landlady abruptly entered 
 the apartment, and said — " I ask your 
 pardon ma'am — and, to be sure, I am 
 very sorry to see a young creature in 
 distress — but I has a family of my own 
 to provide for ; and as you 'an't paid 
 last week's lodgings, I shall thank you 
 ma'am, to have the goodness to settle it 
 now ; and, as I must look to the charac- 
 ter of my children, poor things, in what 
 sort of people I keep, I hope, ma'am, you 
 will have no objectiotis to quit my house 
 next week." 
 
 Mary raised her eyes slowly to her face, 
 and again met the cold, stupid, and sus- 
 picious glance which she had repelled with 
 
136 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 indio-nation on her first entering the house, 
 ^he drew her hand slowly across her brow, 
 like one awaking from a dream, and still 
 in doubt regarding its reality. Her eyes 
 became fixed, deeply fixed, on the prying 
 and unfeeling countenance of her intruder ; 
 and her lips quivering with emotion, she 
 exclaimed — " Woman !" 
 
 " Don't woman me, madam," retorted 
 the other ; '' it perhaps an't for me to 
 judge, but Heaven knows I always thought 
 there was too much kindness and attention 
 about thy gentleman to stand long, or mean 
 good. Thou art a quiet enough lady, I 
 own that, but quiet looks an't to pay me, nor 
 do anything for my family. I may think 
 wrong; about his leavinsr thee in this here 
 sort of way ; but, why, all the neighbors 
 say the same about it already ; and, as I 
 has nothing but the good name of my 
 house to depend on for a livelihood, I 
 hope you will think of paying me, and re- 
 move as soon as possible." 
 
 Mary's natural spirit and self-posses- 
 sion had returned. During; this insulting 
 harangue, she arose to her feet. Her 
 breast no longer heaved, her lips no 
 longer quivered, and her eyes no longer 
 wept ; she no longer trembled, seemed 
 sorrowful, nor exhausted ; the very tears 
 dried on her glowing; cheeks ; she stood 
 erect and motionless as a pillar of death, 
 bending her piercing and immovable gaze 
 on the object before her ; every feeling 
 absorbed in one — and that one measure- 
 less disdain. She continued for a few mo- 
 ments in the same silent and sublime at- 
 titude, her eye resting on the speaker with 
 inefiable scorn ; and, taking her purse, 
 which contained but a few shillings more 
 than the sum demanded, she counted out 
 the paltry debt, and placing the amount 
 on a table before the landlady, she waved 
 her hand in disgust, and, in a tone 
 which commanded obedience, exclaimed 
 — " Away !" 
 
 With the servile cowardice of an infe- 
 rior mind, the other placed her hand up- 
 on the money, and silently obeyed ; but, 
 
 on reaching the door, she hesitated — turn- 
 ed ; and the sound of the silver having 
 brought her back to humanity, she falter- 
 ingly ventured to inquire — " Could I serve 
 you in anything, ma'am ?" 
 
 Without speaking, Mary impatiently 
 stamped her foot, and again waved her 
 hand ; while the other, trembling beneath 
 her own insignificance, slid out of the 
 room. 
 
 On finding herself again alone, Mary's 
 feelings gushed back into their former 
 channels ; and the heartless indignity ad- 
 ding its sting to her other sorrows, her 
 tears burst forth anew, and flowed faster 
 than before. She sank upon her Knees, 
 and, in the excess of her grief, prayed 
 that she might be given strength, and 
 taught resignation. Her petition was 
 humble, earnest, and importunate ; and, 
 as she breathed a fervid and anxious Amen, 
 tranquillity fell upon her troubled spirit, 
 as the morning dawn silently rolls the 
 mist from the valley, or melts away the 
 cloud upon the hills. It was not hope, 
 but a something more than hope, which 
 no physician but prayer can impart ; as 
 though a radiant angel had winged his way 
 to heaven with our request, and from his 
 wake of glory beamed back holiness on 
 our souls. 
 
 Mary's first act was now to change her 
 lodgings where she might be secure. 
 
 CHAPTER vri. 
 
 His was not madness, such as maniacs show, 
 But love — deep love — absorbing agony — 
 
 A withering of the heart — a shroud of wo — 
 The tossing of a bark upon a sea 
 
 That ever doth in storm and darkness flow — 
 Whose shores are death, whose waves are misery I 
 
 A wailing of the spirit, and a grief 
 
 That knew no hope — no soothing — no relief I 
 
 Pain made its dwelling in his lonely breast, 
 "Where wo bent o'er the sepulchre ol hope ; 
 
 Palo lamentation was its cheerless guest, 
 And there would anguish, there would sorrow stop, 
 
 And make their habitation. Peace and rest 
 Had left it desolate. Despair might grope 
 
 And lose its way within it. Every ray 
 
 Of hope had died — of joy had passed away. 
 
 Six weeks had passed, and the domes- 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 137 
 
 tics of Cutbbertson Lodo-e heard no ti- 
 diugs of their master ; for he had left it 
 none knew whither, shortly after the fune- 
 ral of Mr. Robertson. Every individual 
 in the house and upon the estate, from 
 Janet Gray down to the cow-boy who her- 
 ded by the hillside, began to feel alarmed 
 for his absence. Several of the tenants 
 and household were met in conclave before 
 the Lodge, deliberating upon the cause, and 
 concerting measures to procure intelli- 
 gence respecting him. An elderly cotter, 
 holding a snuff-box in his hand, and into 
 which he, ever and anon, dipped his finger 
 and thumb, without, however, raising their 
 contents half-way to his nostrils, assuming 
 a countenance of more than usual serious- 
 ness and sagacity, said — " I dinna ken, 
 sirs — an' I dinna like to be forward in 
 giein' an opinion — but I'll tell ye what it 
 is — an' its not only my opinion, but, I 
 ma}' say, it's the opinion, o' mair folk than 
 ane — do ye ken, I think there was an un- 
 co change upon the laird afore ever he 
 gaed awa : — that's what I think." 
 
 '•^ Losh, John, man," interrupted ano- 
 ther, " whar do ye get yer news .'^ I'm 
 sure we a' kenned that." 
 
 '• Weel, neighbor," replied the com- 
 posed cotter, " I wasna sayin' that ye 
 didiia ken ; but ye '11 no hear what a body 
 has to say. Noo, I was sayin' that in my 
 opinion, the laird was greatly altered ; 
 but I'll tell ye hoo — and this is a fact : 
 whether I was workin' about the plantin', 
 biggin at the dykes, or even ditchin' — it 
 was nae matter what ; whanever he cam 
 past, he wad hae stopped an' had a crack. 
 ' Weel, John,' he wad hae said, as familiar 
 like as if we had lived butt an' ben — 
 ' Weal, John,hoo's a' wi ye the day } Is 
 the wife an' the bairns a' weel ? ' ' Thank 
 ye, si.',' I wad hae said — ' we are a' meikle 
 about our ordinar. How are a' the folk 
 about the lodge ?' Ye may lauch, sirs, 
 but as sure as death, I used to ask him 
 just in that familiar way. Do ye think I 
 wad till ye a lee .•' ' Hae ye onything in 
 yer mull the day, John.'^' he wad hae 
 
 said again ; ' ye keep famish sneeshin' — 
 whar do ye get it '^ 'I dare say, sir,' 
 says I, ' I've nae particular merchant, but 
 sometimes frae ane, an' sometimes frae 
 anither.' Noo, we just used to crack in 
 that sort o' way, for maybe half an hour 
 at a time, twice or thrice a-week. For he 
 used to say, ' I like to hear John enter 
 fairly upon a crack — he's sae entertainin'.' 
 I canna mak oot, sirs, what ye are a' geeg- 
 lin' at. It's my opinion ye think I'm 
 tellin' ye an untruth. Ye may either be- 
 lieve it or no ; but I'll tell ye what it is — 
 for some time afore he gaed awa, there 
 was a great change upon the laird, and he 
 used to pass me, without gommin' me ony 
 mair than than if I had been an' auld 
 milestane ; never even looked the road I 
 was on ; or said, ' Is that you John .-' but 
 gaed saunterin' and seighin' — Lord, pre- 
 serve us ! I could hear his seighs, I'll no 
 say a quarter o' a mile aff, but — I canna 
 tell ye hoo far. Noo, what I infer frae 
 a' this, is, that the laird is greatly changed ; 
 or in my opinion, that there is something 
 upon his mind." 
 
 " Weel, if ye be dune wi' yer sermon, 
 John, an' a body may put in a word edge- 
 ways," said a farmer, " Til tell ye, with- 
 out palaver, that the laird was a wee thocht 
 unsettled afore he left the lodge, an' ought 
 to be seen about. I doubt the back-gaun 
 o' his marriage has been a sair upsettin' 
 to his reason, honest man ; and it will be 
 a pity — that's a' that I can say. I think 
 his agent in Kelso should be written to — 
 and that immediately.'' 
 
 Janet Gray, who, from the period of 
 Mary's leaving Burnpath, had resided in 
 the lodge, as a sort of superior house- 
 keeper, was about to be consulted, when 
 the laird himself was seen proceeding up 
 the avenue, and, like a mischievous school- 
 boy, with his cane, switching the heads 
 from the flowers which adorned the sides 
 of the path. The group remained to 
 welcome his approach, for they not only 
 respected him as a master, but loved him 
 as a brother. But the incorrigible cotter, 
 
138 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 whose assurance was after the same quality 
 as his equanimitj, still holding the snuff- 
 box in his hand, and deeming it an irre- 
 sistible opportunity of giving ocular proof 
 of the familiarity on which he had en- 
 larged, shouldered his spade, and pro- 
 ceeded down the avenue to meet him. 
 
 " I'm glad to see ye back, sir — unco 
 glad, indeed," said he, holding the snuff- 
 box to his master's breast. 
 
 " Glad !" exclaimed Mr. Cuthbertson, 
 as if starting from a dream, and dashing 
 the proffered box to the ground — " glad ! 
 the rivers run wi' sorrow, and the sun has 
 burnt up joy ! — and ye say ye are glad ! 
 — glad ! — hae ye nae sympathy ? The 
 earth is a lump o' desolation, an' hoo can i 
 ye be glad I" | 
 
 " I'm very sorry ye should think sae, 
 sir," said the tranquil cotter, stooping and 
 lifting his box — " very sorry to hear ye 
 say sae, indeed ; for, in my opinion, sir, 
 if we war to count owre the mercies we 
 enjoy, instead o' the things which we 
 covet" 
 
 " Excuse me, John," said Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson, kindly shaking the hand of the 
 cotter ; " I doubt I've no been sae pleasant 
 to ye as I should hae been. But I was 
 kind o' daized and stupid ways when ye 
 spak; for I've had but little rest, and a 
 guid deal to mak me unhappy lately. I've 
 skailt yer snuff, but I'll tak care that yer 
 box be replenished. But oh, John ! John, 
 man ! when a' the best and the dearest 
 hopes and feelings o' the heart are spilt, 
 they are like water upon the ground, that 
 canna be gathered up again !" 
 
 The cotter was about to make one of 
 his accustomed prose replies ; but, as his 
 master returned to recollection, the fulness 
 and anguish of his heart returned also, 
 and he turned away from the never-ruffled 
 speaker, and proceeded towards the Lodge. 
 The others di-ew near to cono-ratulate him 
 on his arrival, and express the uneasiness 
 they had felt. 
 
 Thank yc, thank ye, friends," said he, 
 passing on, and endeavoring to conceal 
 
 the emotions to which his last conversa- 
 tion had given rise ; "I'm unco weel. 
 Here is braw weather for the harvest " 
 
 " Mercy ! hear that !" whispered the 
 farmer ; " he says braw weather for the 
 harvest ! I'm sure we'll hae nae shearin' 
 in this part o' the country for twa months 
 to come. Wheat is hardly in the shot- 
 blade yet." 
 
 " Do ye observe," added another, as he 
 entered the house, " how careless he is 
 wi' his claes, and how particular he used 
 to be ; he wadna gaen out owre the door 
 wi' a single jesp on them." 
 
 " Ay," said a third ; " an' how frichtfu' 
 his beard looks." 
 
 " Preserve us !" cried a fourth, " are 
 ye a' daft thegither f Hasna the laird 
 been a journey ? — an' do ye think, when 
 folks are travellin',they can hae a tailor or 
 a barber for ever at their elbow ! A bon- 
 ny story truly, that a man maun be said 
 to be out o' his head, because he's no jist 
 as prim and preceese as a mantie- maker ! 
 An' what's the great fault ye hae to find 
 wi' him say in, that this is ' fine weather 
 for the harvest .?' Is it no fine weather 
 for bringin' it forward ; an', therefore, I 
 say it's fine weather for the harvest — an' 
 the laird was richt. Had he said, ' Here's 
 fine harvest weather,' ye micht hae spoken 
 _l3ut" 
 
 " Hech, man ! where did ye learn to 
 argue ?" interrupted a listener ; "ye wad 
 made a famous writer to the signet." 
 
 "Or an advocate before the Lords o' 
 Session!" returned another sarcastically. 
 
 " It wad be worth half-a-crown to hear 
 him and John the hedger yoked," added 
 the farmer. And the party dispersed. 
 
 The domestics in the Lodge were en- 
 deavoring to testify their joy at their mas- 
 ter's return. Each flew to proffer him a 
 hundred little services, or make inquiry 
 into every want. Old Janet threw aside 
 her stocking ; and, without performing the 
 customary formalities of adjusting her cap 
 and apron, bustled down stairs to welcome 
 her favorite and friend. He was kindly 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 139 
 
 shaking hands with the servants, and 
 thanking them for their attention. They 
 withdrew as Janet approached, and he 
 hastily rose to meet her. 
 
 " Welcome ! welcome hame, Sir !" cried 
 she ; " an' sair, sair lookin' we have a' 
 had for ye ! But, oh ! did ye find her ? — 
 hae ye seen my ain bairn r" 
 
 " Yes ! yes, Janet, IVe seen her !" re- 
 plied he. " Heaven kens — and my dis- 
 consolate, mourning spirit kens — 1 have 
 seen her ! Yes, Janet, I have seen her ! 
 But, sit doYvn — sit down. Hech, woman ! 
 it's been a lang journey, and a sad one. 
 My voice by night has been like the troub- 
 led wind on the dark sea. Oh, Janet ! ye 
 may think my grief unreasonable, but 
 mine was no common love — it was strong: 
 as the judgments o' eternity !" 
 
 '' Oh, Sir ! Sir !" said Janet— " there's 
 nane kens yer feelings better than 1 do — 
 and nane, I'm sure, that has mair cause to 
 mingle her tears o' ujourning wi' yer la- 
 mentations ; but, oh ! my worthy friend 
 and benefactor, in the midst o' our sor- 
 row, let us remember the Hand that afflicts 
 us, an' not yield to sinfu' and profane 
 lanci-uao-e." 
 
 "Janet," said he, "when the very 
 heartstrings are stangin and writhin"" round 
 the bosom, like adders, the tongue canna 
 wale the words. This may be a judgment 
 upon me — for it wasna love — it was ador- 
 ation ! — an' though it may crush me to my 
 grave, it's adoration still. Without her, 
 an' my life is to live and feel death for 
 ever ! Death — wi' the last pangs o' life ! 
 Death — wi' the horrors o' the grave ! 
 Death — wi' a' that's terrible hereafter !" 
 
 " Oh, my freend ! my freend !" cried 
 Janet, " if it be His will, may ye find 
 peace and comfort to yer troubled spirit !" 
 
 " Peace an' comfort!" he exclaimed — 
 " na ! na ! — naethin' upon this earth can 
 now gie peace an' comfort to me, but the 
 spade — the shool — the kirkyard ! Talk o' 
 peace and comfort to the deein' traveller 
 in the desert, wha has the burnin' sand for 
 a windin' sheet, and the scorchin' wind to 
 
 cool his parched tongue ! But what's 
 death in the wilderness, Janet, to the 
 desolation of the soul ! — what's the burnin' 
 sand to the burnin' brain o' despair ! — and 
 what's the scorchin' wind an"* the parched 
 tono;ue, to the witherin' an' consumin' 
 agony o' love without hope ! — o' a heart 
 dried up for ever ! for ever !" 
 
 " Do try an' compose yersel', sir," said 
 Janet. " I wad fain ask a question or 
 twa aboot my bairn ; but while ye are in 
 such agitation, 1 canna — I daurna. But, 
 oh ! how has she been .-* How did she get 
 there } Is he good till her .^ An' what 
 for did she no write .^ — or hae ye a letter ^ 
 Has she no forgotten my counsel } Are 
 his family guid to my bairn } Oh, sir, 
 try an' compose yersel' for a single minute, 
 and answer me only that one question." 
 
 "Oh, Janet!" answered he, " dinna 
 ask me, I implore ye, for I canna answer. 
 My bein' there is like a dream — (for he 
 had been to London in quest of her) — a 
 painfu', painfu', dream I But I surely 
 saw her — yes, I surely saw our ain IMary ! 
 — drooping like a snaw-drap, an' fair as 
 the alabaster ! But I mind nae mair ! — 
 naethin' ! naethin' !" 
 
 " Oh !" said Janet, "if it were the 
 Lord's will that I might be permitted to 
 see my dear bairn again !" 
 
 " Ye shall see her, Janet," said Mr. 
 Cuthbertson, calmly, and he rose and took 
 her hand ; "ye shall see her, Janet. I 
 mind naething distinctly, but I fear I hae 
 added affliction to the spirit I beheld sink- 
 ino-,an' that thocht is mair bitter to endure 
 than a' my sorrows. I'm a lonely, friend- 
 less bein', wi' nane to share my griefs — 
 nane to mourn for me. I had but one 
 hope — one desire. It was buried here, 
 Janet'' — (and he laid his band on his 
 breast) — " it was buried here for years, 
 and for years. The joys o** life, the melo- 
 dy o' existence, were locked up wi' its 
 very bein' — but now it's gane — it's broken 
 — it has perished, like the first sound o' 
 our infant voice ! — and they're gane also. 
 I hae but ae wish left, an' I will perform 
 
140 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 it. I will pray for fortitude. I will — I 
 must see her again ; an' you, Janet, shall 
 accompany me." 
 
 A few days after this conyersation, the 
 family carriage, which had not been half- 
 a-dozen times without the coachhouse 
 since the death of the former Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson, was put in preparation for a 
 journey. A footman took his seat behind ; 
 Janet was handed by the laird into the 
 vehicle ; and, after wishing good-bye to 
 his household, he took his place by her 
 side. None knew their destination, save 
 that they took the English road, by way 
 of Otterburn. 
 
 With what success old Cuthbertson and 
 Janet Gray pursued their inquiries in Lon- 
 don, will be now seen. Mary began to 
 be in want. With a trembling hand she 
 took a watch — the gift of her father — from 
 her neck. She gazed on it and wept. 
 '"'■ It was thine ! it was thine, my father !" 
 she cried — " thy last gift to thy poor 
 child ! But forgive me 1 — my father, for- 
 give thy Mary ! It must be done !" 
 
 She was ignorant of its value • but 
 trusting to the honesty of the world, and 
 knowing it at least was worth more than 
 what was required for immediate necessi- 
 ties, with an anxious and a throbbing heart 
 she left her lodgings to offer it in pledge. 
 Every step seemed leading her to some- 
 thing resembling guilt — to an action for 
 which she blushed. Her soul appeared to 
 shrink within itself ; and her body moved 
 onward with a consciousness of misery and 
 of shame. Every eye in the passing 
 crowds looked as if fixed upon her, and 
 every eye in those crowds seemed to read 
 her errand as she passed them. She was 
 passing down Holborn, her eyes fell upon 
 the words, " Money Lenty She stood 
 still for a moment. The window was 
 filled with every varied token of misfor- 
 tune and dissipation, from the jewelled 
 watch and wearing apparel down to the 
 prayer book ; and the ancient arms of 
 Lombardy were suspended from the door. 
 Twice she essayed to enter, and resolution 
 
 failed. In vain she wiped away the tears 
 from her eyes, for others uncalled on took 
 their place. 
 
 " 1 must ! I must !" she murmured with 
 a sigh ; and yet a third time her hand 
 was on the door, her foot upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Guidness and mercy !" exclaimed a 
 voice behind her — and an arm was sud- 
 denly thrown around her waist — " it is 
 her ! Janet ! it's oor ain Mary, oor angel 
 Mary, snatched like a brand frae the burn- 
 ing ! wi' her very feet upon the steps o' 
 poverty an' disgrace, an' her han' on the 
 door o' ruin ! It's me, Mary, hinny ! — 
 it's me ! an' here's yer ain Janet come to 
 seek ye ! But oh, hinny ! hinny ! what in 
 the earthly globe has driven ye to this .^" 
 
 The speaker was Mr. Cuthbertson. At 
 the sudden sound of his voice, and at such 
 a moment, Mary uttered one exclamation 
 of confusion and surprise, and for a few 
 seconds heard no more. She seemed 
 launched, with the velocity of the light- 
 ning, from this world of realities to a state 
 of dreams. She yielded almost unresist- 
 ing to his arm, while his voice was like 
 the murmur of water in her ears ; and as 
 her eyes beheld them, it was only a con- 
 sciousness of perceiving a substance, with- 
 out distinguishing the form. 
 
 ^' Oh, my Mary ! — my bairn !" cried 
 the old woman, throwing her arms round 
 her neck, "• hae ye no ae word to say to 
 your am Janet ? My sweet, my winsome 
 bairn ! what's the meaning o' this V 
 
 " Desperation and poverty, Janet ! — 
 desperation and poverty, Janet !" cried 
 Mr. Cuthbertson ; " that's the meaning 
 o' this ! Waes me ! what a pass ! — that 
 — no — no my Mary — but — but — but ! — 
 oh, Janet ! that she should hae been starv- 
 ing, while we were wallowing in the land 
 o' Goshen !" 
 
 *' Starving !" exclaimed Janet — '' Oh, 
 sir ! what do ye mean ? — or hoo do ye 
 ken } Speak to me — speak to me, my 
 mair than bairn, or my heart will break !" 
 
 The strangeness of the scene, the stran- 
 
 Ji 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 141 
 
 ger language, and broad Scottish accent 
 of the speakers, had akeady collected a 
 crowd around them, which, as Mary par- 
 tially recovered from her agitation, tend- 
 ed to deepen her confusion. 
 
 ^' My kind, faithful Janet !" she replied, 
 "this — this is a happiness I did not now 
 expect ! — and — Mr. Cuthbertson,too !" — 
 
 "Ay! just Mr. Cuthbertson !" inter- 
 rupted he. " O Mary ! Mary ! — ^just Mr. 
 Cuthbertson ! — little did I think ance to 
 hear you ca' me" 
 
 " Dinna talk o' that the now, sir," 
 cried Janet; "for I'll declare, wi' ye 
 talking about starving^ je have made me 
 that I dinna ken what I'm doing already ! 
 What does he mean, my ain darling ? Oh, 
 tell me, noo that ye can speak. And hoo 
 hae ye been, r^^ 
 
 " Dear Janet," said Mary, " this is no 
 place for explanations — the people are 
 gathering round us, and it pains me" 
 
 " I'll do nae thing to pain ye, my daw- 
 tie," said Janet; " sorry wad I be to do 
 onything that could pain ye — ye ken that ; 
 but think to yerseP, is it no natural, that 
 me that nursed ye- — me that ate o' your 
 faither's bread for thirty years — is it no 
 natural" 
 
 Here her voice failed — she sobbed, and 
 again threw her arms round Mary's neck. 
 
 " Very true, Janet," said Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson ; " but think ye it's no mair natu- 
 ral for me, to" 
 
 The crowd continued to increase, and 
 were pressing around, them. 
 
 " Dear friends," said Mary, " I can- 
 not — I will not endure this. You know I 
 do not feel less at this meeting than you ; 
 but you would not have us to become a 
 spectacle and expose our feelings, and the 
 circumstances of our family, on a public 
 street. Be composed, dear Janet." She 
 took Cuthbertson's hand — " Come, bro- 
 ther^ I claim your protection." 
 
 " And ye shall hae it," replied he, 
 kindly; "if I've said or dune onything 
 amiss, only forgie me ! For every now and 
 then there's a mist comes owre my soul, 
 
 and I hardly ken whether the past's the 
 present, or the present's the past, or hoo 
 it is, or where I am. But forgie me, Mary." 
 
 " Name not forgiveness — I have nothing 
 to forgive," she returned ; " but let us 
 leave this crowd." 
 
 " Crowd ! — what crowd .?" he inquired, 
 with a look of stupidity ; and turning 
 round, only then became aware of the pre- 
 sence of some hundred individuals, whom 
 he and Janet had drawn around them. 
 " In the name o' wonder, folk !" he ex- 
 claimed, "what are ye a' gapin' an' starin' 
 at .'' Is nature sic a stranger to yer breasts, 
 that ye will stand glowrin' there like a 
 wheen savages ? Is this a specimen of yer 
 London manners ? — awa we ye, every ane 
 o' ye, an' look after yer ain business." 
 
 " Peace ! peace, my friend !" said Ma- 
 ry ; " let us leave them." And they pro- 
 ceeded towards her lodgings. 
 
 After they had sat for a time — " I must 
 leave ye now," said Mary, "but I will 
 return soon. You will not weary, Janet !" 
 
 " O bairn, just baud yer tongue," cried 
 Janet, "for I'll gang wi' ye, though it 
 were to the end o' the earth. Do ye think 
 that Pll let you out o' my sight already, 
 an' ye no answered me ae question ! I see 
 ye are put about something, an' ye winna 
 tell me. How can ye be sae cruel ? Wad 
 I no lay down my life to serve ye } and 
 yet ye'll no tell me — no ae word." 
 
 "Janet," said Mary, "when I return, 
 you shall hear everything ; at present I 
 am compelled to leave you, but only for 
 a few hours." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" replied Janet, " an' hae 
 I come three, four, or I dinna ken how 
 mony hundred miles, just to hear ye say 
 — 'Janet, I'm compelled to leave ye!' 
 There's something wrang, I see that plain- 
 ly — an ye winna tell me — me that carried 
 ye in my arms" 
 
 " No ! no ! dear Janet — nothing ! 
 nothing!" rejoined Mary; "all will be 
 well. Good-by now, and I trust we shall 
 not part again." 
 
 " No part again !" resumed the other, 
 
142 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 in a tone of delight ; " do 1 hear mj ain 
 bairn say the words ? Then I will let ye 
 gang, but, oh, dinna bide an hour — dinna 
 stay mony minutes — for if ye only kenned 
 my anxiety, hinny, to ken hoo ye gat to 
 Devonshire, as they ca' it — or what's 
 brought ye here again, Pm sure ye wadna 
 stay a single moment. An' bring Mr. 
 Walton wi' ye — noo, will ye promise to 
 bring him, and I'll just be happy .^" 
 
 " 1 cannot Janet !— I cannot !" said 
 Mary, in accents of unconcealed anguish ; 
 " do not distress me." 
 
 "Ye canna!" exclaimed Janet, and 
 sank back in her seat. " Sirs ! sirs ! what 
 does my bairn mean .?" 
 
 " I know your friendship," she replied, 
 and trembling arose to depart ; " but fare- 
 well now— 1 shall return shortly ; yes — 
 yes — I shall return soon." 
 
 Her manner was flurried, and expressive 
 of inward struggling. Mr. Cuthbertson 
 arose, and sorrowfully but tranquilly walk- 
 ing towards her, took her hand within his, 
 and said—' ' Stay Mary !— stay ! My Si s- 
 TER shall not go forth in sorrow. Yes. 
 my Sister! You have called me Brother, 
 an' henceforth the daughter o' my mair 
 than faither, shall be to me a Sister, an' 
 an only Sister. My brain was bewildered, 
 an' it is often sae ; but 1 heard something 
 o' what was passin', an' I see the tear 
 upon my sister's cheek — My Brother's 
 no here ! yes, my Bro'.her ! — my Brother ! 
 Thank God I've got the word past, an' I 
 can say it again — my brother Henry ! — an' 
 noo, if I canna be happy, I shall be com- 
 posed. If the sun o' joy winna shine on me, 
 1 shall yet see the twilight o' consolation." 
 
 CHAPTER Vlll. 
 " They parted— ne'er to meet again 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from painin». 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 Like cliffs which have bcL-n rent asunder; 
 A dreary sen now flows between, 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 The marks of that which once hath been." 
 
 It is now necessary, in concluding our 
 story, to follow, for a brief space, tlie ad- 
 
 ventures of Sir Robert Walton and bis 
 friend Mr. Northcott. It will be rcmem, 
 bered that, on Henry Walton's return to 
 Buckham Priory, he found his parents 
 from home, and that he was left to rumi- 
 nate, in the seat of his ancestors, on the 
 eventful step he had taken, and the sor- 
 rows and trials which had followed up his 
 marriage with Mary Robertson. The 
 cause of the absence of his parents was, 
 alas ! unknown to him. During his so- 
 journ in Scotland, Mr. Northcott, a per- 
 son of ruined fortunes, and of desperate 
 character, having contrived to gain the 
 ascendency over Sir Robert's mind, took 
 occasion to cast suspicion upon the honor 
 of his lady. The infamous slander too 
 readily accomplished the villain's purpose. 
 It wrouorht like madness in the brain of Sir 
 Robert, and without asking for a single 
 proof of Lady Walton's incontinency, he 
 barbarously commanded her to leave the 
 Priory ; and, to complete the measure of 
 his revenge, he ordered Northcott to pre- 
 pare a deed of disinheritance against his 
 own son, Henry Walton. Lady Walton, 
 however, did not long survive the un- 
 founded jealousy and brutality of her hus- 
 band ; she died in the course of a few 
 weeks, of a broken heart — an innocent 
 victim to his malign suspicions. Sir 
 Robert himself, whose health for some 
 time had been upon the wane, was ordered 
 by his physician — a creature of North- 
 cott 's — to take a voyage to the Morea ; 
 and in compliance therewith, he embarked 
 in company with the latter in a vessel 
 bound for the Mediterranean. But its 
 classic shores had for him no charms ; he 
 looked upon every object with apathy, 
 and it was in vain that Northcott put forth 
 all his eloquence and all his art in en- 
 deavorino; to astonish and attract his atten- 
 tion, by the frequent boldness and beauty 
 of the scenery. Sir Robert peevishl}- 
 shook his hhad, and looked in a contrary 
 direction. He labored to ply him into 
 humor with the bottle ; the other drank, 
 but remained sullen. They had been 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 143 
 
 visited by storms, pursued by a Frencli 
 cruiser, and, to lighten the vessel, part of 
 their cargo, water casks, and provisions, 
 had been cast into the sea. Almost for 
 the first time, Sir Robert had drank water, 
 and that in measured quantities, granted 
 only at intervals. He had felt there was 
 a meanino; in hunger, and had been de- 
 nied a coarse biscuit until his next meal. 
 He had been in terror of death — in fear 
 of capture and imprisonment in a strange 
 land — and, above all, a perpetual sea- 
 sickness, or rather a murmuring of the 
 disease, had for weeks been whispering 
 about his heart, and he cursed the ship, 
 the sea,' his companion, and the hour that 
 he left Enirland, in the same breath. 
 
 His sleep grew disturbed and fevered, 
 while the images of the past crowded upon 
 his imagination. The voices of his wife 
 and of his son spoke through his troubled 
 slumbers ; and to his locked up senses, 
 frequently the flapping sail and the hollow 
 wind shouted their upbraidings and accu- 
 sations ; and often would he start from 
 his pillow, call upon their names, and vow 
 to make atonement. As the voyage be- 
 came more and more disag-reeable, their 
 remembrance swallowed up every other 
 thouj;ht, and haunted him throuo-hout the 
 restless night, like a reviling spirit. Now 
 the thought of his cruel injustice to Henry 
 overwhelmed him with agony ; and weep- 
 ing as a child, he would cry aloud — '' O 
 Hal ! Hal ! — what has my jealousy and 
 madness brought upon thee ?" 
 
 Again, the idea that he might be wan- 
 dering as a beggar upon the earth, that he 
 might have leagued himself with banditti, 
 roused all the father in his bosom, and let 
 loose nature's wildest anguish. Then 
 would he picture his injured wife before 
 him ; and, to hide the vision from his 
 sight, bury his face in the clothes that 
 covered him, while he reddened with ter- 
 ror before the phantom which memory 
 crushed upon his brain. He slept, but 
 she was still present, and his conscience 
 heard her wild reproaches. 
 
 Once awakening in frenzy from such a 
 dream, he rushed to where Northcott slept, 
 and grasping his throat, wildly exclaimed 
 — ^' Speak, wretch ! speak ! Was it not 
 thy doing } Was it not thou saidst Jess 
 was unfaithful V 
 
 " True, it was I," said Northcott, start- 
 ing, but endeavoring to soothe him ; " but 
 why this foolish agitation.'' Pray, be 
 calm." 
 
 " Be calm !" shouted Sir Robert ; " dost 
 think I will be dragged to perdition for thy 
 sins } Dost think I will be tormented 
 every night, and haunted by my Jess's 
 spirit for doings of thine } Jess was my 
 wife — the mother of my Hal ! Canst thou 
 deny it } Rise ! rise, I tell thee ! — for 
 thou shalt not sleep while my soul is pur- 
 sued by furies for thy actions." 
 
 " Away !" cried the other, fiercely, hop- 
 ing to intimidate him ; " am I a schoolboy 
 to listen to these childish absurdities } Is 
 this the return" I am to receive for the 
 love which I manifested towards you, in 
 tearing you from the embrace of a wanton "^ 
 Begone to thy son ! and leave me for 
 ever." 
 
 " And I ivill leave thee," said Sir Ro- 
 bert, relinquishing his grasp, " thou calm 
 sinner ! Were my foot upon land, I would 
 leave thee. Where is thy love now .?" 
 
 " Restraining my hand. Sir Robert," 
 replied Northcott, " that it is not raised 
 to wipe out your insult and ingratitude." 
 
 "Thy hand!" cried Sir Robert 
 " Swinge ! dost think I fear thy hand, or 
 any man's hand ! And hast not thou 
 insulted me ? Hast thou not called me 
 jealous fool ? Didst thou not tell the cap- 
 tain — didst thou not tell all the crew, not 
 to mind me, for I was mad! And was 
 that thy gratitude for the money I have 
 lent thee!" 
 
 Northcott sprang up to reply, but the 
 other turned away and ascended to the 
 deck. Sir Robert's antipathy to continue 
 the voyage increasing with its inconveni- 
 ences and distance, and his headstrong and 
 boisterous character breaking out into ex- 
 
114 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 travagance wheitever thwarted, Northcott, j 
 fearing that he might prevail upon the 
 captain to place him on board of some } 
 vessel boijnd for England, availed himself 
 of the effect produced upon these occasions 
 by his fierce and passionate manner, as a 
 measure of safety to himself, to circulate 
 a report of his occasional insanity. This 
 baseness, on the part of Northcott, being 
 afterwards repeated to Sir Robert, if it did 
 not give him a glimpse of the real character 
 and designs of his pretended friend, it 
 widened the breach which the tardy belief 
 that he had been bitterly deceived, and 
 unsuspectingly betrayed to accompany him 
 to a far distant land of barbarians, had 
 created, and confirmed his determination 
 not to proceed, but to return immediately 
 to England. 
 
 It was near sunrise when Sir Robert 
 ascended to the deck ; the vessel was with- 
 in a league of Malta, and bearing towards 
 the land. 
 
 " What land be that, sir ?" inquired he 
 of a gentleman, who, in company with a 
 lady, stood engaged in conversation with 
 the helmsman. 
 
 " The Island of Malta, sir," resumed 
 the other, 
 
 "Zounds! Malta! Malta!" repeated 
 Sir Robert. " Do take thee a boat and 
 set me ashore," continued he^ addressing 
 the mate, " and I'll give thee a guinea for 
 thy trouble." 
 
 " Thank your honor the same," replied 
 the seaman, " but they may all go ashore 
 who please in half-an-hour, for we must 
 put in here." 
 
 " Dang ! dost say so, lad .^" cried Sir 
 Robert ; " thou shalt have a bottle of 
 Burgundy for thy news." 
 
 The vessel had now anchored off the 
 harbor ; and, when the boat was lowered. 
 Sir Robert, with the gentleman and his 
 daughter, entered it, and were rowed to- 
 ward the land. 
 
 " Give me thy hand, sir," said the ba- 
 ronet, turning round to the father of the 
 young lady — " I hope you will not leave 
 
 me. What excuse hast thou for going any 
 farther.? Let us ashore at this ]\lalta, 
 or what d'ye call it, and back to England 
 as we best can." 
 
 " I give my hand," said Mr. Pahncr- 
 ston — for such was the gentleman\s ."Sur- 
 name — "in all friend.ship. It pains me 
 that we must part ; yet I have but two al- 
 ternatives to choose between — to lose my 
 newly acquired friend for a time, or my 
 daughter for ever. It is true that her 
 health appears improved, but you will for- 
 give a father's fears ; I cannot — I cannot 
 already take her back to a country from 
 which I have snatched her as from the 
 grave." 
 
 " Tush, man !" exclaimed Sir Robert ; 
 " thou talkest of countries — our own coun- 
 try is the best of all countries, and the 
 healthiest to boot. Dost tell me about 
 curing consumptions abroad — I say, cure 
 consumptions at home ! Dost say — you 
 must go to France, or go to Italy, or go 
 on this wild-goose-chase of thine to cure 
 them ? I say — go to Wales, go to the 
 Highlands of Scotland ! Dost think there 
 be any consumptions there .?" 
 
 " Where there is nothinof but an atmo- 
 sphere of changes, and a sky of clouds, 
 there must," said Mr. Palmerston. 
 
 " Nonsense, man !" continued Sir Ro- 
 bert ; " han't I been there .'' The atmo- 
 sphere, as thee calls it, clips round thee 
 like a hunter's coat ; and, as for clouds, 
 why, thou mayst live above them, if it 
 suit thee best." 
 
 " Then we must indeed part from each 
 other !" added the daughter of Mr. Pal- 
 merston, with apparent solicitude and 
 emotion. 
 
 " No, I tell thee, I won't part with thee, 
 but I will go home with thee," resumed 
 the other. " What ! hast not suffered 
 enough already, but thou must have us go 
 among Turks or cannibals, to seek what 
 we can find at home .?" 
 
 " Go, Sir Robert," said I\Ir. Palmer- 
 ston, " and bear with you my esteem for 
 sympathizing with me in the affliction of 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 145 
 
 mj daugliter ; but as you find the voyage 
 unpleasant, I have no right to expect you 
 to continue it." 
 
 " 'Sdeath!" returned Sir Robert, "I 
 think thou art mad in good earnest, if 
 thou art not as tired of this voyage as I 
 am. Why this be nothing but a rock after 
 all," continued he, rising in the boat as it 
 neared Port Mahon, " and the town is a 
 prison, for all that I see. Why, look ye. 
 Miss Palmerston, love, if this be one of 
 the islands thy father has came so far to 
 seek health for thee in, thou mayest bless 
 me that I am laboring to prevail upon him 
 to turn back ao-ain." 
 
 She answered only with a sigh, and her 
 breast heaved tumultuously. 
 
 " Zounds ! duck, what dost sigh for ?" 
 he added ; " Fm sui-e thou art glad that 
 we shall return home again. Nay, now, I 
 can't stand thy tears ; I tell thee thy fa- 
 ther shan't go, and thou shalt not go on 
 board that vessel again." 
 
 They had been but twa days upon the 
 land, when the disease, which had taken 
 deep root in the constitution of Elizabeth 
 Palmerston, and which had been lying 
 dormant during the voyage, began to de- 
 velop itself with fearful rapidity. Her 
 father, finding himself on shore, yielded 
 to the feeling of comfort and security 
 which it inspired ; and after his temporary 
 privation, being surrounded with every 
 delicacy to be found in the island, he be- 
 gan to feel the pleasures and the influence 
 of sociality, and in a short time became 
 the boon companion of Sir Robert. 
 
 " Thou shalt go to England with me, 
 Palmerston," cried the baronet, in his one 
 hand holding his, and in the other a glass. 
 " Thy daughter shall not die— she shall 
 live for Hal's sake — and never shall mer- 
 rier party assemble together than that 
 which shall meet within the hall of Buck- 
 ham Priory to celebrate their nuptials. 
 What ! dost thou look sorrowful ! I tell 
 thee thy daughter shall be happy as the 
 day is long, for I feel within my heart that 
 1 love her already better tlian her own 
 
 father can, and why wilt thou stand in the 
 way of her happiness.^" 
 
 " My friend," said Palmerston, the 
 words faltering on his tongue, " 1 have 
 told you the declaration of the physician, 
 that the life of my Elizabeth depended 
 upon a change of climate, and residence 
 abroad. I fondly would — but dare not 
 return to Britain now. I cannot be the 
 murderer of my daughter." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! good sir, dost intend to tear 
 my heart to pieces ?" cried Sir Robert ; 
 " 1 tell thee we shall all go home together. 
 I cannot leave thee. My Jess is lost to 
 me eternally — Hal is lost to me ; and all 
 that I most fondly clung to has been 
 wrenched from my grasp. Body-o'-me !" 
 groaned he, in continuation, " art thou in 
 earnest ? Wilt leave me a prey to my 
 own conscience — the victim of a villain 
 who has flung deadly poison into my cup 
 of enjoyment, and made me drink to the 
 dregs. Never I — you shall not return on 
 board. Thy daughter shall live — she shall 
 reach our native land in safety and in 
 peace ; and when there, we shall find my 
 poor Hal, who will bless me for my choice 
 of his bride, and forgive his father for the 
 barbarous wrons: he intended him." 
 
 Palmerston was about to reply to the 
 entreaties of his friend, when a messeno-er, 
 dispatched by his daughter, intimated to 
 him her wish to see him immediately. 
 
 " Is my daughter worse ?" inquired Mr. 
 Palmerston eagerly ; and without waiting 
 an answer, he hurried from the scene of 
 their carousal, followed by Sir Robert, to 
 the apartment which she occupied in the 
 house. 
 
 On entering the room they found her 
 resting on a couch, and when her father 
 approached her side she held out her hand 
 cheerfully towards him, and begged, with 
 a tremulous voice, that he would be com- 
 forted, as she had a stran2;e feelino; at her 
 heart, which told her, she knew not how, 
 that she would soon lay her head down in 
 peace for ever. 
 
 " Don't say so, love," cried Su: Robert, 
 
 VOL. rr. 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 stifling his emotion, " your father has 
 agreed we shall return to England, and 
 for Hal's sake you shall not die — nay, if 
 I should watch thee, child, with my own 
 eyes, I tell thee thou shall not leave me." 
 
 She raised her eyes, in which were seen 
 a strange unearthly fixedness, upon his 
 countenance, stretched forth her pale 
 transparent hand to him, and in accents 
 half inarticulate with emotion, said — 
 " You are kind, sir, but God does not 
 will that I should participate in the hap- 
 piness you intend for me. A few brief 
 hours and the struggle shall be over. My 
 poor father ! I have but one petition — 
 distract me not with your sorrow, nor suf- 
 fer the only link that binds me to exist- 
 ence to be broken violently. I could have 
 reposed a secret to your keeping — but it 
 availeth not. I have seen him wasted 
 with bitter remorse, and tortured with 
 shame and agony of soul, who was the 
 cause of the voiceless misery which laid 
 the foundation of disease in my heart." 
 
 " Seen whom, my daughter," exclaim- 
 ed her father, raising her in his arms. 
 "Speak! speak j — a few minutes more 
 and it may be too late." 
 
 She raised her drooping head, and made 
 an effort to articulate, but in vain ; the 
 sudden paleness that overspread her fea- 
 tures told that her weary heart was at 
 rest, and that her sorrows were buried 
 with her for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 •' The scene was changed, and years were fled, 
 But found them still to virtue wed : 
 And the cheerless months that had passed away, 
 Threw sunshine o'er each blissful day, 
 "When fairest forms around them played, 
 And father, mother, fondly said ; 
 For a parent's joy, and a parent's love, 
 Is a joy all other joys above I 
 And age drew on, but they knew it not, 
 The face of youth was half forgot ; 
 But still the youthful heart was there, 
 And still his partner seemed as fair. 
 As when he first, in giddy bliss, 
 1 Snatched from her lips the virgin kiss." 
 
 Henry Walton, on receiving the letter 
 from Mary, intimating her intention of 
 
 leaving Scotland to share the fortunes of 
 her husband, left Buckham Priory im- 
 mediately, and proceeded by land to the 
 north, in the hope of meeting his young 
 wife. It was on the second morninfy after 
 Henry's departure, that, as the coach on 
 which he travelled passed through Mor- 
 peth, he was abruptly startled from the 
 melancholy reverie into which he had 
 fallen, by a stout countryman grasping 
 him by the arm, and crying out — " My 
 service to you, Maister Henry — I'll wager 
 ye a mutchkin o' whisky ye 're gaun down 
 to Scotland to look after Miss Mary Ro- 
 bertson — I beg yer pardon — Mrs. Walton, 
 I mean." 
 
 ^' Tell me," said Henry, eagerly, " what 
 you know of her." 
 
 " It canna be done in a breath, IVIaister 
 Henry," replied the other ; " but if ye '11 
 just step down frae the coach, and walk 
 wi' me owre to Lucky Gillie's, I'll answer 
 for yer being weel ta'en wi', if that yer no 
 blate to be seen wi' a rough drover." 
 
 " Lead the way, and I will follow you," 
 said Henry, jumping from the coach, and 
 seizing the arm of his brawny companion ; 
 " but keep me not longer in this agony of 
 suspense, if you esteem me, or regard the 
 dear object of my search," 
 
 " Save us a', man ! and do ye doubt 
 for a moment either the one or the other," 
 ejaculated the drover, while a tear forced 
 its way down his cheek. " I've borne 
 baith o' ye on my heart ever since I was 
 made acquaint wi' your privations an' mis- 
 fortunes, an' I diuna think ye hae reason 
 to fear that ane o' the name o' Watson will 
 ever forget what is due to the unfortunate." 
 
 Henry felt grieved that he should, in his 
 anxiety to be put in possession of all that 
 was known of his wife, have given pain to 
 his warm-hearted and generous compa- 
 nion. He therefore turned round to the 
 drover, with a look of emotion, and ex- 
 claimed — " Forgive me, my friend, for 
 any expression of mine that may have 
 given you uneasiness ; let my anxious 
 heart and the tortured state of my feel- 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 147 
 
 ings, be my apology — I a,ni sorry for 
 it." 
 
 ^' I can read that, Mais^er Henry, by 
 the look o' yer een.. But here's Lucky 
 Gillie's house ; stap in, sir, an' ye shall 
 hear a' that I ken concerning Mrs. Wal- 
 ton." 
 
 On entering the inn, they were shown 
 up stairs to an unoccupied room ; and after 
 the drover had broken up the fire, and 
 seated himself in front of it, he^ jocosely 
 turned round to his young friend, and lay- 
 ing his brawny hand upon his shoulder, 
 said — " Be seated, Maister Henry — 
 there's warse things than a guid fire in a 
 cauld mornin' ; I hope ye '11 mak yerseP at 
 hame here — it's a friend's house ; for, ye 
 see, sir, auld Lucky Gillie's mither was 
 the wife o' the Watson that fell at Cullo- 
 den ; an', though my faither an' her faither 
 werna full brithers, they were faither's 
 bairns but no mither 's — yet I hae aye 
 looked on Lucky an' myseP as unco sib. 
 Say the word, Maister Henry — it's what I 
 like ; shall we hae tongue — or ham — or 
 baith ? Faith, sir, it's a bad thing takin' 
 unpleasant news, fresh and fastin', intil an 
 empty stamach in a raw morning — they're 
 nae better than physic." 
 
 " Unpleasant news!" cried Henry, im- 
 patiently, rising from the chair where the 
 hand of the- other had half constrained 
 him ; " tell me, I pray you, where my 
 poor wife is domiciled, and let me fly to 
 her protection. Do not deceive me, nor 
 torture me more by withholding from me 
 your knowledge of her place of abode ; 
 for, if I am compelled to bear this agoniz- 
 ing weight of suspense a few minutes 
 longer, I shall be unfitted for the prosecu- 
 tion of my journey." 
 
 " Excuse me, Maister Henry," said the 
 drover, soothingly, " I wad hae had ye 
 first to hae broken yer fast ; but, as yer 
 impatient to hear a' that I ken aboot Mrs. 
 Walton, I'll just tell ye, to mak a lang 
 hiorj short, that I gaed on the coach frae 
 Burnpath to Edinbro' wi' her, an' though 
 I hadna the pleasure, for some time, o' 
 
 kenning that my travelling companion 
 was nane other than your young wife, I 
 wasna lang in discovering that the gentle 
 creature was unfriended, an' sufi'erino; 
 under the weight o' sorrow an' distress. 
 ' 1 ask yer pardon, leddy,' said I, when 
 the coach stopped at the Black Bull ; ' do 
 ye think, ma'am, I could be o' ony service 
 to ye.' She thanked me, an' seemed op- 
 pressed by the ofier 1 had made her ; but, 
 without mair ado, I handed her frae the 
 coach, pushed aside the caddy bodies, an' 
 flung her trunk onto my ain shouther, an' 
 trudged ofi" wi' it to ' Brown Square,' to 
 the house o' a Maister Lindsay, that's 
 weel to do in the world, were it no that 
 his wife an' twa o' her dochters hae gaen 
 clean mad wi' pride. I'll no' deceive ye, 
 Maister Henry ; I was sae ta'en np aboot 
 the way that Mrs. Walton micht be re- 
 ceived by her Edinbro' freends, that I cam 
 up the next mornin' frae the Grassmarket, 
 an' though I had naething on but my short 
 grey-coat, leggums, an' double-soled 
 shoon — ^just as ye see me the noo — I made 
 bold to inquire after the comfort o' the 
 dear young leddy at the house o' Mr. 
 Lindsay. When I knocked at the door, 
 the impudent deevil o' a callant, that they 
 ca' their footboy, geegled ootricht in my 
 face ; but I stalked intil the parlor, an' 
 made my bow ; an' in a short time, Mr. 
 Lindsay an' mysel' — for we were auld 
 acquaintance — felt the spirit o' the past 
 come owre us. We had glass after glass, 
 tO' the happiness an' prosperity o' oor 
 mutual freend, till oor hearts became ac- 
 tually drunk wi' joy. I perceived, in a 
 minute, that Mr. Lindsay treated the 
 dochter o' his departed freend like his 
 ain bairn ; an' though his wife was a puir, 
 feckless windlestrae o' a creature, an' his 
 twa elder lasses mere buskit dolls, withoot 
 either hearts or souls, yet I saw that the 
 youngest ane was a leddy after Miss Wal- 
 ton's ain heart ; an' I was convinced that 
 my dear young freend, frae the liking that 
 1 discovered had sprung up between her 
 an' Misses Lindsay, an' frae a' that I kent 
 
148 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 o' Mr. Lindsajj wad feel hersel at ease in 
 his house." 
 
 " Did 3'OTi inform Mary that you had 
 met with me ?" inc^uired Henry, half choked 
 with grief; "I hope in God you did not 
 add my sorrows to her own !" 
 
 ^' It was far frae me to think o' doin' 
 the like," replied the drover. ^' I merely 
 hinted, in a cautious an' becoming man- 
 ner, Maister Henry, that 1 had the honor 
 — God kens hoo undeserved — o' being a 
 wee bit familiar wi' her worthy husband, 
 an' I gaed on to mention a circumstance 
 or twa connected wi' yer respected faither 
 — Sir Robert Walton o' Devonshire — 
 naething to his disparagement, sir ; but 
 just sic as the price o' his A.rawbian mare, 
 his great connexions, an' the like ; yet, 
 instead o' Mrs. Walton appearing uplifted 
 wi' the thocht o' being the wife o' a baro- 
 net's son, she only answered me wi' a de- 
 jected melancholy smile, an' seemed to be 
 completely miserable at the very idea o' 
 the grandeur that awaited her." 
 
 " And does she still reside in the house 
 of her father's friend.^" inquired Henry, 
 taking his hat in his hand, and evincing a 
 disposition to proceed immediately on his 
 journey. 
 
 " It's mair than I can say," answered 
 the drover, "but we shall soon ascertain, 
 Maister Henry ; for, if ye '11 stop or I get 
 my business dune, we can tak the afternoon 
 coach, an' drive straight through to Brown 
 Square, without mair ado." 
 
 Henry felt too unhappy to be able to 
 embrace the kind proposal of his compa- 
 nion ; and, after snatching a hasty break- 
 fast, he bade his friend farewell, and 
 posted off in a chaise for Edinburgh. He 
 travelled all night, and a little after day- 
 break, the next morning, he found himself 
 in the Scottish capital, long before the stir 
 and bustle of life were heard in the streets. 
 He silently bent his course to Brown 
 Square, and hastily running over -the brass 
 plates attached to the doors of the more 
 respectable of the houses, his eyes at last 
 fell upon the name of Mr. Lindsay. It 
 
 was too early to disturb the inmates, but 
 the thought that Mary was within, acted 
 as a spell upon his heart, and he had not 
 the power to take himself from the Square. 
 He walked to and fro in front of Mr. 
 Lindsay's dwelling, and ever and anon, as 
 he examined the movements of his watch, 
 he blamed the wearisome length of the 
 hours, and became half convinced, in his 
 perturbation of mind, that time was lag- 
 ging in its course. A servant at length 
 opened the door, when Henry stepped up 
 to her, and inquired if he could see Mr. 
 Lindsay. 
 
 " It's far owre sune to see the maister, 
 sir," answered the girl ; " he'll no be 
 doun frae his room for a guid hour yet." 
 
 " But could you not find means to let 
 him know," said Henry, earnestly, " that 
 a gentleman wishes to see him on matters 
 of the greatest moment r''^ 
 
 " It's mair than my place is worth, 
 sir," replied the servant, with a low curt- 
 sy ; " but if ye wad leave yer name, I can 
 gied intil the maister, when I tak in the 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Stop, my good girl," cried Henry, 
 slipping a piece of silver into her hand, 
 " perhaps you can inform me if Mrs. 
 Walton is one of your visitors." 
 
 '' That wad be the young leddy, sir, 
 wi' the bright hair," ejaculated the ser- 
 vant, " that the maister used to ca' his 
 angelJ Na, na, sir, she's no here now; 
 she took shipping at Leith, and gaed awa 
 some weeks sin' syne, to seek out some o' 
 her braw friends in Lunnun. There's 
 naebody visiting here the now, but the 
 upstart Dawsons o' the Grassmarket, that 
 carried on the butchin." 
 
 Henry, speechless and trembling with 
 emotion, rushed from the girl's presence 
 and proceeded through the streets, gazing 
 franticly upon ^vcry one he met, till ar- 
 riving at the inn where he first alighted in 
 the morning, he flung himself down in a 
 paroxysm of most impatient agony, ex- 
 claiming, under the bitterness of disap- 
 pointment, and the overwhelming impetu- 
 
THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 149 
 
 osity of his feelings — " My wife ! — my 
 Mary ! — where — where shall I find her ?" 
 
 Leaving Henry to retrace his steps from 
 Edinburgh to Buckham Priory, we in- 
 troduce the reader once more to Mr. 
 Cuthbertson, Janet, and Mrs. Waltoh. It 
 was in vain that the latter attempted to 
 steal from their presence and to go in 
 search of Henry ; for Janet, now that she 
 had found her whom she would willingly 
 have laid down her life to serve, was de- 
 termined that her "• dear bairn," as she 
 familiarly termed Mary, should no longer 
 be subjected to the privations and' misery 
 she had so long endured. 
 
 " O bairri I" cried Janet, on Mary's 
 importuning her again to be allowed to 
 leave her and Mr. Cuthbertson for a few 
 hours — " yer miserable and restless as a 
 house-bird which, escaped from its cage, 
 breaks its wings and its heart thegither, as 
 it flutters without aim and without rest, 
 frae place to place. I canna think o' 
 parting wi' my winsome bairn ; but if she'll 
 tell me what's galen wrang wi' her, I'll 
 travel to the ends o' the y earth to get 
 back her peace and her happmessi^' 
 
 " My kind, affectionate Janet," replied 
 Mary, " be calm — all will be well". My 
 poor, dear father' has often told me to 
 submit in all things to Kis will who bring- 
 eth good out of apparent evil : let us 
 hope, then, that th<i successive misfortimes 
 which have so lotfg chequered the scenery 
 of my life are drawing to a close,' and 
 that a better fortune awaits me" 
 
 " Dear sister," said Mr. Cuchbertson, 
 enclosing the hand of Mary in his own, 
 " let us proceed to Devonsiiire instalntly, 
 and from the domestics o' Buckham Pri- 
 ory we may learn some intelligence of 
 Maister Henry." 
 
 " I know your goodness,'' Replied Mary, 
 wiping away the tears fi'om her eyes, " and 
 could you bo instrumental in bringing me 
 into the presence of my l-Ienry,,tho bless- 
 in'^- of heaven, and the listing gratitude of 
 a breaking and disconsolate heart, shall 
 bo your meed of reward." 
 
 " Talk not o' reward," said Mr. Cuth- 
 bertsonj sorrowfully. 
 
 " Na ! na ! my dawtie !" ejaculated 
 Janet, " we're owre glad we hae found 
 you ; an' what would we no do for you an' 
 Maister Walton ? In troth, my bairn, if 
 he's no at hame — or if his folk dinna- 
 show you that kindness your winsome in- 
 nocence deserves — will ye promise, Mary, 
 an' I'll just be content, to return for guid 
 an' a' in the family carriage to Cuthbert- 
 son Lodge, an' bring Maister Henry 
 alang wi' you .?" 
 
 " Return, Janet !" cried Mary, strug- 
 gling to suppress her emotion, " in my 
 husband is bound up my happiness or 
 misery ; with him I could enjoy the sun- 
 shine of prosperity, or welcome the long 
 night of penury and wo ; nor could the 
 destruction of my heart's last hope draw 
 one murmur from my lips, or throw one 
 shadow over my brow, to tell my Henry 
 of an inward pang.'' 
 
 On the following morning, as Mr. 
 Cuthbertson, in company with Mary and 
 Janet, were setting off for Buckham Priory, 
 they were unexpectedly startled by a per- 
 son thrustino; his hand into the carriage 
 window, and exclaiming — " Heaven pre- 
 serve us ! — do I dream .'' or is this a delu- 
 sion ? I darna believe my een ! Speak f 
 young leddy, were it but ae word. Are 
 ye no tho minister's daughter o' Burn- 
 path — the wife o' Henry Walton .^" 
 
 Mary uttered a loud shriek, and fell 
 back in a swoon ; but when she recovered: 
 she found herself supported in the arms 
 of her hi2sband, who had for some days, 
 with the honest drover for his companion, 
 been prosecuting his inquiries through 
 London, iii the hope of meeting with his 
 wife. Their meeting may be more easily 
 conceived than described. Henry and 
 Mary wept through ex:cess of happiness ; 
 but their tears were gilded with the smiles 
 of hope and of bliss, and their past suffer- 
 ings were swallowed up' in the joyful an- 
 ticipations of the future. Every facilitj 
 was speedily afforded by Mr. Cuthbertson, 
 
150 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 in order that Henry and his young wife 
 might appear at Buckham Priory in a 
 manner suiting their station. His family 
 carriao-e was laid under contribution, and 
 in a few hours the whole party left Lon- 
 don for Devonshire. It may be here 
 necessary to mention, that Sir Robert 
 Walton had arrived in England but a few 
 weeks previous to this event, in restored 
 health, from the island of Malta. On 
 reaching his seat, his first care was to 
 destroy the instrument that robbed his 
 son ; and he now strove to wipe off the 
 injury he had intended him, by regarding 
 Henry with that overweaning partiality 
 which a dotiu^ father, in the decline of his 
 years, is apt to manifest towards an only 
 child. Henry had at once acknowledged 
 his marriage to his father, and the latter 
 was now, in pride and fondness, anxiously 
 lono'ino- to welcome his daughter. The 
 arrival of the party at Buckham Priory 
 soon afforded him that joy. Every eye 
 was contagious of felicity — every breast 
 glowed with transport, 
 
 " Bless thee for thy choice, Hal !" ex- 
 claimed Sir Robert, gazing with a look of 
 pride alternately on both. " Thou art 
 father's own son! Thou hast given me 
 the loveliest daughter in all England ! 
 And bless thee, too, my own best child," 
 he added turning to Mary ; " thou shalt 
 be happy as the day is long. Thou shalt 
 be mistress of my house, -and not even thy 
 own Hal shall contradict thee ; and I 
 will settle a portion upon thee myself." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," said Mr. Cuthbert- 
 son, "but my sister needs nae portion; 
 why I call her sister ye will learn here- 
 after. I, sir, have been a lonely man, and 
 a miserable man, like a planet driven frae 
 the universe, and plunging in deeper 
 darkness through a'' eternity. But com- 
 fort has at last stolen owre my spirit, as 
 an infant fa's asleep to the lullaby o' its 
 mother ; and joy lias broken again upon 
 my head, like the first dawning o' a sum- 
 mer's morning. I have a right, sir, to 
 make reparation to your son and to my 
 
 sister, for I have been (though innocent- 
 ly) the author o' a deal o' their afflictions ; 
 and at this happy meeting, if ony o' ye 
 feel mair joy than me, there are none o' 
 ye feel a holier satisfaction. Henry," he 
 added, ■^' did the poor petition which ye 
 wad see in the pocket-book I left wi' ye, 
 before I gaed to Scotland, meet your 
 approbation .^" 
 
 The pocket-bock was still unopened, 
 and Henry offered to return it, expressing 
 the depth of his gratitude, and stating that 
 he had not looked on its contents. 
 "Keep it! keep it!" exclaimed the 
 other, ye will there find a copy o' the in- 
 strument which conveys my sister's por- 
 tion "" 
 
 It was in fact a copy of his will, be- 
 queathing to her and her heirs, the estate 
 of Cuthbertson Lodo-e, too-ether with a 
 thousand pounds, payable immediately by 
 a banker in London. 
 
 Months of unmingled joy rolled over 
 the party before they left the Priory. 
 Sir Robert was about to enter proceed- 
 ings against Northcott, when intelligence 
 arrived that that disgrace of humanity 
 had, by self-destruction, avoided a more 
 public, though not more disgraceful death. 
 
 Mary was a mother ; and the sole de- 
 light of Mr. Cuthbertson was to act as 
 preceptor to her children. He became at 
 once their guardian and playmate, enter- 
 ing with the simplicity of a child into 
 all their sports. The desolation of heart, 
 of which he had been the victim, became 
 like a half-remembered dream, or an au- 
 tumnal sterm iihat had passed away, and 
 left the mellow beams of a settino; sun to 
 throw their softened light upon the plain. 
 He never again parted from his friends, 
 but remained with them in Devonshire, 
 and every summer accompanied them to 
 his own estate in Roxburghshire. 
 
 Old Janet lived to behold " her bairn's" 
 bairns, virtuous as their mother ; and 
 as age drew on, Sir Robert vowed he 
 felt younger and happier every day. 
 Henry and Mary made several visits to 
 
 ^ 
 
THE ONE-ARMED TAR. 
 
 151 
 
 Burnpath, and caused a cottage to be built 
 for the helpless old widow, iu whose ruined 
 hovel they had met upon the moors, and 
 with whom Henry had left his purse. 
 Thirty years have passed over their wed- 
 ded lives, and on them middle age has 
 descended imperceptibly, as the calm twi- 
 light of a lovely evening, when the stars 
 steal out, and the sunbeams die away ; as 
 a holy stillness glides through the air, 
 like the soft breathings of an angel, un- 
 folding from his celestial wings the rosy 
 curtains of a summer night ; and the con- 
 scious earth, kissed by the balmy spirit, 
 dreams and smiles, and smiling dreams 
 itself into the arms of night and of repose. 
 Mary has lost somewhat of her sylph-like 
 form, and Henry his elasticity of step, but 
 they have become middle-aged together. 
 
 They have half-forgotten the likeness of the 
 face of their youth, yet still the heart of 
 youth, with its imperishable affections and 
 esteem, throbs in either bosom, smiling 
 calmly upon time and its ravages ; and 
 still in the eyes of Henry his partner seems 
 as young, as fair, and as beautiful, as when, 
 in the noon-tide of her loveliness, she 
 blushing vowed to be his upon his bosom. 
 Their children have arisen around them 
 and called them blessed, and they have 
 beheld those children esteemed and ho- 
 nored in society. Mary has taught Henry 
 that virtue is always young, and that there 
 is no true virtue which has not religion for 
 its source ; and Henry, in return, has 
 taught Mary that " in the husband he has 
 not forgot that he is still her lover." 
 
 THE ONE-AEMEDTAR. 
 
 Old Tom ISIoffat was the finest fragment 
 of a jolly, good-natured, fearless seaman, 
 that ever I met with. I say a fragment of 
 a man ; for he was minus his right arm. 
 It was pleasant to look upon his merry old 
 face, and to see his flaxen locks descend- 
 ing over his brow in sea-made ringlets ; 
 for, though he was turned threescore, there 
 was not a grey hair upon his head. He 
 appeared like an image of contentment, 
 that envious mortals had deprived of an 
 arm, and left him laughing at their ma- 
 lignity. But, above all— though Tom 
 was neither given to the throwing of the 
 hatchet, nor the spinning of long yarns — 
 it was delightful, when he was about half- 
 a-sheet in the wind, to hear him relate a 
 few scraps of his history. 
 
 " Ay ! ay !" he would say, " I have 
 been in some rum scenes, and encountered 
 some rough squalls in ray time — but no 
 matter : I am now sailing-master Moffit, 
 
 with five and sixpence a-day — and no 
 mistake ; and a pension for the loss of my 
 fin into the bargain. I am as comfortable 
 and happy as any two-handed man in the 
 three kingdoms. But, if you wish to 
 know my history, all that's worth telling 
 oft is soon told. I was born in Hexham. 
 My mother was a naval officer's widow, 
 and her father, a clergyman. I say she 
 was a widow, because my father died be- 
 fore I was born. I had a sister, but I do 
 not remember her ; and I was brought up 
 by my mother beneath the roof of her 
 father. He was a good but severe old man, 
 and I tried to like him, but I could not, 
 for I shook as I heard him cry — * Thomas.' 
 He gave me a good education, and wished 
 to make a parson of me, though I don't 
 think I was any more parson-like then 
 than I am now, and that's not much, I 
 take it. The old man didn't belong to 
 the Church — he was a Dissenter ; and he 
 
152 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 persevered in his determination of making 
 me a preacher. Therefore, when I was 
 about sixteen, he called me into his study, 
 and informed me that he intended sending 
 me through to Edinburgh to attend the 
 classes. He even spoke of my succeed- 
 ing to the pulpit which he occupied ; and 
 he spoke till he brought the salt water 
 into mj eyes, and almost upon my cheeks, 
 of living to see me preach in it ! I had 
 no ambition for the honors which he 
 seemed to have in store for me. However, , 
 as he was rather too strict a disciplina- j 
 rian for me, I offered no objections to his ! 
 plan of sending me to Edinburgh. 1 ! 
 thought it would free me from the restraint 
 under which he kept me, and that was all 
 I knew about the matter ; though, like an 
 ungrateful dog as I was, I did not thank 
 the old man as I ought to have done. 
 
 Now, my grandfather had a watch — it 
 was not a gold one, but it was a very ex- ! 
 ccllent silver one, and it had a gold chain 
 and seals attached to it — ^it had been pre- 
 sented to him as a token of respect on 
 the day of his ordination, by a family in 
 which he had been for six years tutor 
 and chaplain. And, on the day of my 
 departure, wben I had kissed my mother's 
 cheek and felt her lips upon mine — for I 
 loved her as I did my own soul, and she 
 deserved it all — the old man took my 
 hand, and he pulled the watch from his 
 fob, and he put it into my hand, chain, 
 seals, and all, and — 
 
 ' Take this, Thomas,' said he, ' for 
 your grandfather's sake ; and as often as 
 ye look at it, remember that time is pre- 
 cious — spend it not in vain. ' 
 
 If 1 never loved the old man before, I 
 believed that I loved him then. For pre- 
 sents are excellent temporary openers of 
 the heart, either of man or woman. If 
 your sweetheart be shy, it is wonderful 
 how a present will mollify her — but it is 
 not the real thing ; and her seeming affec- 
 tion, so produced, won't stand the test, or 
 be of long duration. 1 have been a sailor, 
 and foolish enough in my day, but I tell 
 
 you, if you wish a girl to love you sin- 
 cerely and truly, never attempt to win her 
 heart by the offer of bribes. Give a 
 heart for a heart, and nothin"- more, till 
 you have her hand, too, and then give her 
 as much as you like. 
 
 But, as I was telling you, I set out for 
 Edinburgh with my grandfather's watch 
 in my pocket, and I pulled it out, cither 
 to see the hour, or admire my property, 
 during every half hour on the journey. 
 And, I believe, though I did shed tears 
 when he gave it, that, before I was half 
 way to Edinburgh, I had forgot the giver 
 in the gift. However, the first session 
 passed on tolerably enough. I was not 
 kept upon short allowance ; but, though 
 I did not want for victuals, I had not a 
 sixpence of pocket-money, and 1 felt this 
 the more, because I thought that some of 
 my fellow -students perceived my circum- 
 stances, and despised me on account of 
 them. 
 
 I returned home honored with a prize, 
 and received the caresses of my mother, 
 and the congratulations of my grand- 
 father. The old man predicted bright 
 days for me — already in imagination, he 
 beheld me in the pulpit which he had oc- 
 cupied for thirty years. 
 
 But, with his first session ended, the 
 prudence of Tom Moffat and his grand- 
 father's hopes. About the end of the 
 second, a circumstance occurred which 
 put a stop to my studies for twelve 
 months, if not for ever. The people with 
 whom I had lodged during the first year, 
 were about to emigrate to America. Their 
 name was Lindsay, and they had a daugh- 
 ter called Margaret, a beautiful girl of 
 seventeen. I never saw her but my blood 
 ran at the rate of ten knots. During my 
 second session, we used to walk in the 
 Meadows, or around Duddingstoue Loch, 
 together, and 1 forsook the study of Greek 
 and Latin, to study the words that fell 
 from the lips of Margaret Lindsay. But, 
 as I was saying, they were about to emi- 
 grate to America, and I accompanied them 
 
THE ONE-ARMED TAR. 
 
 15c 
 
 to Leith, and went on board the vessel 
 with them. It was night when they sailed. 
 IMargaret and I were sitting in a corner 
 below, away from her parents and the rest 
 of the passengers, unseen, and talking 
 words of tenderness together. She prom- 
 ised never to forget me — 1 never to forgot 
 her. I intended to accompany her out 
 into the Firth, and to return on shore 
 with the pilot. But we knew not how 
 time moved on. We were loath to part, 
 and I noted not that the vessel was under 
 weigh. In truth, I had never been on 
 board of one before. But, lo ! her pa- 
 rents called upon Margaret, and there sat 
 she with my hand across her shoulders — 
 and the vessel not only beyond Leith 
 Roads, but out of the Firth ! There was 
 I, a penniless and involuntary passenger 
 across the Atlantic. It was a glorious 
 situation for a student to be placed in ! 
 But the idea of enjoying Margaret's com- 
 pany reconciled me to it. My mind was 
 made up at once, and I went to the com- 
 mander of the vessel and offered to make 
 myself useful during the voyage. He 
 agreed to the proposal, and 1 began to 
 take my first lessons in seamanship. 
 
 We arrived at Quebec, and, after ac- 
 companying the girl I loved for more than 
 three thousand miles, it was hard to part 
 from her, and I wished to go up the 
 country with her father. But he would 
 not hear of the scheme. He said that I 
 must go back to my friends ; and the mas- 
 ter, having found me of service on my 
 passage out, told me that he considered 
 himself accountable for me, and that he 
 must take me back to Leith. 
 
 I will not bother you with an account 
 of my parting with Margaret, nor of her 
 distress, poor thing. More than forty 
 years have passed, and I never think of it 
 without feeling, I can't tell how, until 
 this day. Neither will I tell you about 
 our passao-e home — there was nothino- 
 particular in it. My mother received me 
 as if I had risen from the dead — her joy 
 was unbounded — she hung upon my neck 
 
 and wept for hom*s ; and, though I did 
 not escape several lectures from my grand- 
 father, he was not so severe upon me as I 
 anticipated. But I said nothing to either 
 him or my mother of Margaret Lindsay. 
 
 Such was my second session ; and my 
 third and last was more unfortunate. As 
 I was now becoming a lad, my grandfather 
 became more liberal, and he allowed me 
 a shilling a week for pocket-money. But, 
 during the very first month of the session, 
 a fellow-student advised me to accompany 
 him to the theatre. I had never been in 
 one ; and, besides the amusement, he said 
 we should receive a lesson in elocution. 
 I needed but little persuasion to accom- 
 pany him, and we went to the pit together. 
 Two young ladies took their seats beside 
 us. They were wondrous affable, and one 
 of them was almost as beautiful as Mar- 
 garet Lindsay. I sometimes thought they 
 were too affable ; but then they were polite 
 — very polite— and they smiled so sweet- 
 ly, and thanked me so kindly for every 
 answer I was able to give to their inqui- 
 ries, that I could not think evil of them. 
 They wished ns good night at the door of 
 the theatre, and my friend and I proceed- 
 ed to our lodgings. But, as we were 
 passing along the South Bridge — 
 
 ^ Moffat,' says he to me, * what's the 
 clock .?' 
 
 I put my hand to my watch pocket, but 
 neither seals nor watch were there. I re- 
 membered having had it in my hand, be- 
 tween the play and the farce, in the thea- 
 tre. I thought I should have fallen dead 
 upon the street. A blindness came over 
 my eyes. I heard the voice of my grand- 
 father crying in my ears — ' Thomas I 
 Thomas! — reprobate! reprobate !' 
 
 We gave information to the watchmen 
 at the police-office, and at the houses 
 where sitch articles are received. But, 
 presto ! — my grandfather's watch, chain, 
 and seals, were gone. They had vanished 
 like a rainbow, and were nowhere to be 
 found. Every succeeding day of the 
 session was one of agony and reproach. I 
 
154 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 learned no more. If I opened a page, 
 imagination heard the ticking of my grand- 
 father's watch, and it ticked in my ears 
 eternally ; or, as I strove to read, I put 
 down my finger and thumb mechanically, 
 to fumble with the chain and seals, and 
 they rubbed against each other, and I 
 started and cried — ' What shall I do for 
 the watch P 
 
 With a heavy and foreboding heart, and 
 a countenance that bespoke disaster, I re- 
 turned to Hexham. My welcome was 
 beyond my deserving ; but supper-time 
 came, and my grandfather, my mother, 
 and myself, sat in his little parlor. 
 
 ' What o'clock is it, Thomas, dear .^' 
 said she, kindly. 
 
 Had she driven a knife to my heart, I 
 would have taken it as kind. I faltered 
 — I ventured a reply. My grandfather 
 observed my hesitation, and he inquired — 
 ^ Where is your watch, sir — the watch 
 which I gave you ?' He laid particular 
 emphasis on the latter part of his ques- 
 tion — my confusion increased, and I stam- 
 mered out some excuse about its beinof in 
 
 o 
 
 my chest, I believed. ' You believe no 
 such thing, sir,' said my grandfather, 
 sternly ; ' go bring it instantly.' I saw 
 the storm gathering on his brow. I per- 
 ceived that he not only suspected the 
 truth, but believed me more guilty than I 
 was. 1 left the room, as if to go to my 
 own apartment for the watch ; but scarce 
 knowing what I did, I left the house by 
 the garden door, and took the road towards 
 Newcastle. Before I had proceeded a 
 mile, my resolution was taken to go to 
 sea. 
 
 I reached Newcastle before the inhabi- 
 tants were astir. You may suppose that 
 my experience in the manual duties of a 
 seaman were not great, being merely what 
 I acquired in a trip across the Atlantic 
 and back again. But I had a love for the 
 sea, and had learned readily. I knew that 
 the clothes which I wore were not likely 
 to procure me a berth, and I resolved, as 
 soon as the shops should open, to offer 
 
 them to a s€cond-hand dealer, in exchange 
 for the garb of a sailor. 
 
 About seven o'clock I was wandering 
 along what is called the Close, on the 
 look-out for a shop where I should be 
 likely to get an exchange of rigging, when, 
 seeing a street of almost perpendicular 
 stairs, on each side of v;hich were dealers in 
 old clothes, shoes, and such like, I ascend- 
 ed it, saying to myself — ' This is my shop.' 
 I entered one of the cells, shops, or call 
 them what you like, the prcprie tress of 
 which had already been at her morning 
 libations. She received me with a low 
 curtsey, and as sweet a smile as her deep 
 rosy face was capable of expressing. On 
 making known my proposal, the smile 
 vanished from her face quicker than the 
 sun is hidden by a cloud in a hurricane. 
 She surveyed me from head to foot, as a 
 sergeant would examine a recruit, and 
 turning me unceremoniously round, in- 
 quired — ' And how much wilt thou gie me 
 t' boot?' 
 
 Her whole stock of old clothes, shoes, 
 marine stores, and other et ceteras, were 
 not worth five pounds, while my coat 
 alone had cost three, not three weeks be- 
 fore. 
 
 ' Nothing,' I replied. 
 
 ' Nothing ! thou scoomy robber o' the 
 dead !' cried my fair dealer in second- 
 hand garments. ' Dost think I steal my 
 gudes.? Nothing! — Be off!' I was re- 
 tiring from the tempest, when she grasped 
 me by the tails of the coat, adding — 
 ' Coom back ; let me syee what I can de 
 wi' thee.' 
 
 She then spread out a patched blue 
 jacket, an old Guernsey frock, and a pair 
 of canvass trousers. 
 
 ' Now, these will fit ye t' a tee,' con- 
 tinued she, ' or I'm a Dutchman ! But, 
 upon my word, thou shud gie me summut 
 t' boot, my canny lad.' 
 
 The wide aperture serving fo.r a win- 
 dow, was without frame or glass, and the 
 folding-door was so hung around with the 
 principal stock of the shop, and barricad- 
 
-^ 
 
 THE ONE-ARMED TAR. 
 
 155 
 
 oed with boots, shoes, and such like, that 
 it could not be shut till night ; and, on 
 my inquiring for an apartment to change 
 my dress — 
 
 ' Jemmy Johnson !' exclaimed she, burst- 
 ing into laughter, ' that's a gud un ! — 
 where did ye get yur modesty ? Did ye 
 steal the claes, that ye are afraid to be 
 seen ? My fyeth ! 1 dinna knaw but the 
 constaples may be here for them before 
 night yet ! 1 had better mind what I'm 
 deein', else I'll lose baith gudes and cha- 
 racter.' 
 
 Making a virtue of necessity, I equip- 
 ped myself as quickly as possible ; and, 
 with a hurried step, hastened to the quay. 
 Without stopping, I proceeded to North 
 Shields, where I went on board a collier, 
 and inquired for the skipper. I was di- 
 rected down to the cabin, and there I 
 found sitting a jolly, fear-nothing, merry 
 little fellow, penning a love epistle to his 
 owner's daughter. On applying to him 
 for a berth — 
 
 ' Why, I don't know but I may gie thee 
 one,' said he ; ' thou's a gud-looking 
 young chap, like mysel. Was ye ever in 
 the coal trade afore ?^ ' No,' answered I. 
 ' I might hae seen that by the whiteness 
 o' thy hands,' said he. ' Where did ye 
 sar your time .^' 
 
 I told him I had been in the American 
 trade. 
 
 ' Well :' continued he, ' I canna engage 
 ye by the run, but by the month ; and I'se 
 no gaun to ask ye if ye can hand, reef, and 
 steer, and splice a rope, and them land- 
 lubberish sort o' questions ; but only, I 
 maun tell ye, when ye are at the helm, if 
 the watch sing out, " Ship a-head !" dinna 
 ye mind a pin ; but, if the other doesn't 
 ship about, run right athwart the lubber's 
 hawse, and learn him better manners : 
 that's wur way o' deein'. Let him knaw 
 it was his duty to stand clear o' a fire- 
 ship. But, I say, are ye a gud writer .?' 
 
 ' Rather good,' said I. 
 
 ' Shiver me,' said he, ^ then yur just 
 the chap for me ! I want a bit letter here 
 
 for a sweetheart o' mine, man ; but, smash 
 me ! I can't flourish it off at all. Try thy 
 fist at it, mate. Maybe ye can dee a bit 
 at the inditing, tee — for, ye see, she's 
 been at the boarding-school ; and, drat 
 me, though I can manage the spelling 
 pretty hobbling, wi' looking at the dic- 
 tioner for the words, yet I knaw nought 
 about their grammar. Now, I say, if ye 
 understand it, gie her a gud deal o' gram- 
 mar in't. That's the way to dee their 
 business ! Conscience ! had my faither 
 keept me another year at the school, I 
 would married a duchess.' 
 
 I now entered upon the honorable office 
 of confidential secretary to the skipper of a 
 collier. On finishing the letter, 1 read it 
 to him ; and, on hearing it, he danced 
 round the cabin in ecstasy, exclaimino- — 
 ' Blow me, if that wunna dee, nought will. 
 I say, if ye turn out as gud a seaman as 
 ye are a scholar, I will make ye my mate, 
 and that's all.' 
 
 I thus became a favorite with the skip- 
 per from the first ; and not being a bad- 
 natured fellow — though I say it myself — 
 I soon became a favorite with the crew 
 also. I sailed in the collier durino; three 
 years, and, in that time, I had obtained 
 the forgiveness of my mother — but the 
 countenance of my grandfather never. 
 He cut me ofi" as a prodigal. 
 
 But there was one night that about half- 
 a-dozen of us were upon the lark, as we 
 called it — battling the watchmen, and see- 
 ing life in London, and, upon the whole, 
 making more mirth than mischief, when, 
 as luck would have it, we ran foul of a 
 press-gang upon Tower Hill. ' What 
 cheer, my hearties .'' cried the Lufi" who 
 headed the gang. 
 
 Some of our party took to their heels, 
 but I stood still ; for I didn't care a toss- 
 up of a copper about the matter. I was 
 just as willing to serve the king as another 
 man, if he would pay me for it. So I 
 surrendered at discretion, and the lieu- 
 tenant called me a ' fine fellow' for so 
 doing. ' Ah, you old shark !' thinks I, 
 
156 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ^ your purser's grin won't gammon Tom 
 Moffat.' 
 
 One of my mates wbo attempted to run 
 was brought back ; and, from my heart 1 
 was sorry for him, for he had a wife and 
 four little ones ; and I suppose they might 
 sink or swim, live or starve, for all that 
 the service into which he was impressed 
 would see, say, or care, about the matter. 
 Confound me ! after all, impressment is 
 too bad. It's a black shame to the navy. 
 It has broken more hearts than ever it 
 made heroes. Why drag away a man, 
 like a dog at a cart tail, against his will ? 
 Again I say, it is a shame all over ! Why 
 not give better pay, and clear the decks 
 for promotion. Then they would get 
 men — good men, willing men — and the 
 navy would be what it ought to be. I 
 can't away with impressment. 
 
 However, I was taken on board the 
 tender, in the river, and, in three or four 
 days, joined a seventy-four off Ports- 
 mouth. I liked the service well enough, 
 for our Captain was the very model of 
 what an officer ought to be. He was none 
 of your fresh-water, courtly puppies, who 
 are sent to officer the navy because their 
 fathers or their mothers are doing dirty 
 work for the government people on shore. 
 He was none of your butterflies, recom- 
 mended by a Lord of the Admiralty, and 
 promoted over the heads of better men, 
 because their relations have Court influ- 
 ence. This system is as bad as impress- 
 ment, every whit. It takes away both 
 heart and hope from a man. Is it not 
 hard for a brave fellow, who has been a 
 lieutenant for ten years, and been in twice 
 ten actions, and behaved nobly in all, to 
 have to lift his hat to a puppy to-day a-s 
 his superior officer, who was a middy be- 
 neath him yesterday ? I say it is a shame. 
 Fair play is a jewel ; and there should be 
 no promotion but what service and merit 
 procure. But I do say that my old com- 
 mander was a man every inch of him. 
 He is getting well up the list now, and I 
 hope to live to see him an admiral. 
 
 I had a little library on board the col- 
 lier; and, amongst my books, which my 
 old skipper brought on board the tender 
 to me himself, was a copy of the Iliad — 
 not Pope's translation, but the orginal. 
 It was my favorite book. My shipmates 
 marvelled at it, they regarded me as a 
 sort of prodigy, and swore I would be a 
 post-captain some day ; and they were 
 wont to look over my shoulder as I read, 
 and point with their finger to a particular 
 word or letter, and inquire — ' Tom, what 
 does that mean ?' — or, ' what does that 
 stand for .^' — and replying, when I an- 
 swered them — ' Blow me, but that's 
 funny !' 
 
 At length they began to call me ' Greek 
 Tom !' and the name coming to the Cap- 
 tain's ears, he inquired the meaning of it ; 
 and upon being informed, he sent for me 
 aft ; and says he — ' Moffat, what's this I 
 hear of you ? — you a Greek scholar, eh P 
 ' Yes, your honor,' said I. 
 
 ' The deuce you are !' said he. And 
 he began to put some questions to me, 
 which he found I was more able to answer 
 than he was to ask. 
 
 ' Well, my good fellaw,' he continued, 
 ' you are out of your proper sphere at 
 present — that's all that I can say.' And 
 he began to ask me about my history and 
 relations ; and I told him everything, not 
 even omitting my trip to America, and 
 the loss of my grandfather's watch. 
 ' Well, I must see what I can do for you,' 
 said he. And at first he made me a sort 
 of schoolmaster on board, and afterwards 
 his clerk or secretary. He treated me 
 like a broth-er. 
 
 We had been in two or three actions, 
 and had had a fair ru5i of prizes, when we 
 were sent irpon the American station. 
 We were lying off Newburyport, which is 
 about thirty miles from Boston, and I went 
 ashore for letters. I reached the post- 
 office, and, as I tapped at the window, and 
 the tin pane was withdrawn — eyes and 
 limbs ! — whose face — I say, whose face 
 d'3^e think I should see, but that of my 
 
THE ONE-ARMED TAR. 
 
 157 
 
 own sweet and never-forgotten Margaret 
 Lindsay ! It was like a pistol-sliot in my 
 heart — I was more dead than alive ; and 
 sbe — why, she fell back with a scream ; 
 and her father rushed into the office, and 
 again to the door, to see what had alarmed 
 his daughter. He beheld me as much 
 alarmed as her, but he knew me in a 
 twinkling. He took my hand, and led 
 me into the house. What passed I won't 
 tell you. I found Margaret was not mar- 
 ried, but she was more beautiful than 
 ever. We didn't speak much, but our 
 eyes said a thousand things. 
 
 On going on board, I told my com- 
 mander all that happened. He was, in- 
 deed, a good soul, and a considerate one. 
 He saw which way the land lay with me ; 
 and as we were cruising upon the station, 
 and Newburyport was a sort of rendez- 
 vous, he gave- me permission to remain a 
 month on shore. I blessed him in my 
 heart, and I could have embraced his 
 knees. 
 
 My mother had been dead for several 
 years — my pay was more than I required 
 — I had nobody to assist out of my prize- 
 money ; so that I had saved a trifle. I 
 went ashore, therefore, to spend a month 
 with Margaret, with my pockets pretty 
 comfortably lined. Why, the month was 
 like a dream — it was like sailino- round a 
 
 o 
 
 romantic coast in fine weather. But, be- 
 fore three weeks of it had passed, I pre- 
 vailed on Margaret to accompany me to 
 the church, and we became man and wife ; 
 and her father offered no objections. 
 
 I found it hard to part with her ; and, 
 at her entreaty, I would have given up 
 the sea — but then I was in prospect of 
 being made sailing-master — and that was 
 what I call having my bread baked for 
 life. 
 
 But — not to spin my yarn too long or 
 too fine — some months after my marriage, 
 we were ordered upon another station ; 
 and, a little before the orders arrived, a 
 letter from my wife informed me that I 
 was about to become a father. I lonsced 
 
 to return to her, to fling my arms around 
 her neck, and to kiss the cheek of our 
 little one. But fate had ordered it other- 
 wise. We left the station, and we attack- 
 ed one of the French islands in the West 
 Indies. Two boats' crews of us went 
 ashore to storm their batteries. We had 
 already made a sort of breach, and I was 
 resolved to be one of the first to mount 
 it — for I was determined to obtain my 
 promotion to the rank of sailing-master if 
 anything in my power could do it. I was 
 the first, and I believe the only one. I 
 was surrounded, wounded, made prisoner, 
 and, for seven years I was shut up in a 
 French prison, without hearing of either 
 wife or child, and very little of my coun- 
 try, or how the game went on. 
 
 At length a change of prisoners took 
 place, and I -was one of them. On the 
 first day of my liberty, I wrote to my 
 wife, and I wrote also to my old com- 
 mander. Within six months, I received 
 an appointment as sailing-master ; but 
 months and months passed on, and I heard 
 not a syllable concerning my wife. It 
 made me miserable, and my promotion 
 couldn't cheer me. I left no stone un- 
 turned to discover where she was, or 
 whether she were dead or living ; but it 
 was of no effect. Nothing could I hear 
 concerning her ; and many a tear have I 
 shed on the deep sea, and at the dead of 
 night, for her sake. 
 
 Such was the state of suspense I was in 
 for eleven years after my promotion as 
 sailing-master. About that time, our ves- 
 sel had a turn-up with a French ship of 
 the line, and a frigate ; and, at the very 
 close of the action, when, one of them, in 
 fact, had struck her colors, a shot carried 
 away my right arm. But, as I told you, 
 I have a pension for it. But it soon heal- 
 ed, and I quitted the service. I went to 
 America, and to Newburyport, to inquire 
 after my wife, my child (if I had one), 
 and her parents. And there, all that I 
 could learn was — that her father had died 
 fifteen years ago, and that my wife, with 
 
158 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 an infant daughter, had gone to England. 
 I re-crossed the Atlantic in the first vessel 
 I could find. I determined to search for 
 her through every town and village in the 
 three kingdoms. On landing, 1 found that 
 my old commander was also on shore. 
 He felt for me, and he did everything in 
 his power to assist me ; and we got para- 
 graphs, setting forth all the particulars, 
 inserted into all the newspapers, and they 
 were copied into the papers throughout 
 the country. What could I do more ? 
 
 Well, about two months after I had 
 been in England, a dejected, but beauti- 
 ful young creature, with a child in her 
 arms, came to my lodgings and inquired 
 for me. 
 
 Heaven and earth ! how I started ! — 
 how I trembled ! — how my heart throb- 
 bed, when I gazed upon her countenance, 
 for it bore the engraven lineaments of my 
 wife. Scarce could I speak to her. A 
 tide of feelings swelled in my bosom, as 
 though my heart would burst. I thought 
 — I feared a thousand things in a moment. 
 
 She wept ; she told me that she had 
 heard of my paragraph in the newspapers. 
 That the circumstances related seemed to 
 connect her with me — that her father's 
 name was Moffat — that he had married 
 her mother at Newburyport — and other 
 things she stated which the newspapers 
 mentioned not. ' God bless thee, my 
 child! my lost one!' cried I. And I 
 flung my arms around the neck of the 
 poor, weeping, and forlorn being. Her 
 cheeks bespoke want, and her eyes misery. 
 I ordered wine. I seated her on a sofa 
 beside me. I took her child in my arm 
 and I kissed it ; but I saw the agony that 
 was heaving in my daughter's breast, and 
 1 feared to ask her concerning its father. 
 I saw that all was not right. ' And where 
 is thy mother, love .?' said I — ' Oh ! does 
 she live .?' 
 
 'Yes! yes! — she lives! — she lives!' 
 sobbed my poor child, and placed her 
 hands before her face and wept bitterly. 
 * She lives ! — she lives !' she repeated ; 
 
 ^ but I cannot meet my dear mother 
 again.' 
 
 ' My Margaret, then, lives !' said I ; 
 ' thank Heaven ! But weep not, my own 
 child — my sweet one, do not weep. I am 
 your father. I will protect you. Tell me 
 your story ; and by Heaven ! my girl, if 
 you have been injm-ed, I will avenge your 
 wrongs.' 
 
 But she wept more bitterly. I at length 
 learned that my Margaret resided in 
 Scotland, and that my daughter, against 
 her mother's will, had, while a mere girl, 
 married a thoughtless young man, with 
 whom she had come to London, and who 
 had now all but forsaken her. 
 
 I desired to know where I might see 
 him, without his knowing who I was ; and, 
 receiving the information I sought, I found 
 him with a dozen others, thoughtless as 
 himself, at a billiard table. One-armed 
 and left-handed as I was, I played with 
 the best of them ; and, without discover- 
 ing my name, I endeavored to ingratiate 
 myself into the good opinion of my hope- 
 ful son-in-law ; and I succeeded. I found 
 him more thoughtless than depraved. He 
 was not beyond reformation ; and I asked 
 him home to sup with me, and the invita- 
 tion was accepted. 
 
 There was a frankness in his manner 
 that gave me hope of him. During sup- 
 per, I endeavored to sail round him, 
 and to cast the anchor of contrition in 
 his heart. Without directly stating my 
 object, or giving him reason to suspect 
 what my intentions were, ' I spoke dag- 
 gers' to his conscience, ' but I used none;' 
 and, when I saw that I had brought him 
 to the right point, like King David be- 
 fore Naman, to pass his own condemna- 
 tion, I rang the bell, and his wife and 
 child entered the room. But I extended 
 to him my solita^ry hand in forgiveness, 
 and gave him a father's greeting. ]\Iy 
 scheme succeeded ; and, from that day 
 until this, he has been a husband of whom 
 my daughter has had no cause to be 
 ashamed. 
 
THE REFORMED. 
 
 159 
 
 But the next day wc all took our pas- 
 sage for Scotland, where I was to meet 
 my long-lost Margaret. Every mile of 
 our passage seemed a league, every hour 
 a day. But we landed at Leith ; and, 
 without stopping there an hour, I hired a 
 coach, and we proceeded to Roxburghshire, 
 where she resided. It was mid-day ; the 
 coach drew up at the door. My daugh- 
 ter and her child were first handed out, 
 then followed her husband, and I heard 
 a scream of joy as my dear wife beheld 
 her child. But she had just reached the 
 door, with open arms, to welcome her, 
 
 when I too stepped upon the street. I 
 hurried forward — 
 
 ^ Margaret !' I cried ; ' my Margaret !" 
 ' Thomas ! — my husband ! my hus- 
 band !' she exclaimed, and she flew to 
 meet me. 
 
 We had been parted for more than 
 nineteen years, but we have never been 
 separated an hour from that day until 
 this. We are contented as the summer 
 day is long — and, once for all, I say, I am 
 as happy as any two-handed man in his 
 Majesty's dominions." 
 
 THE REFORMED. 
 
 In the year 1744, a young man, of good 
 personal appearance, but indifferently 
 dressed, stepped on board a vessel at Leith 
 bound for Cadiz, and inquired if the cap- 
 tain would take him out as a passenger. 
 The latter eyeing him for a moment with 
 a scrutinizing look, said he had no objec- 
 tion, provided he paid his passage-money 
 in advance. To this proposal the young 
 man at once agreed ; and having ascer- 
 tained that the vessel would sail in an 
 hour, added, that he would return at the 
 expiry of that time and then settle for 
 his passage. Punctual to time, he, in an 
 hour afterwards, again appeared on the 
 deck of the Flora, which was the name of 
 the vessel now about to sail for Spain, and 
 requested the captain, in a hurried man- 
 ner, to conduct him below ; he there paid 
 the former, in guineas, the amount of his 
 passage -money. Having received his mo- 
 ney, the captain again hastened on deck, 
 to superintend the various preparations 
 for getting the vessel under weigh. His 
 passenger, however, did not follow him '; 
 he remained below ; and although there 
 
 were many inducements to have urged him 
 on deck, and amongst them a curiosity to 
 see what was going on, there he continued. 
 He either had none of this curiosity, or he 
 had some secret reason for remaining in his 
 present situation ; and from his manner al- 
 together, this rather seemed to be the case. 
 He had no luggage — none whatever ; not 
 even a change of linen, or, indeed, of any 
 thing else. His looks, too, were troubled, 
 and full of an indefinite apprehension. His 
 tone of voice was subdued and flurried, as 
 if by some strong internal agitation. If 
 any one had marked him, as he now sat a- 
 lone in a corner of the cabin of the Flora, 
 they would have seen, besides these symp- 
 toms of a mind ill at ease, a pale and hag- 
 gard countenance, frequent and sudden 
 looks of alarm on any unusual noise being 
 made on deck, and a feeling of impatience 
 and uneasiness which evidently bore refer- 
 ence to the motions of the vessel, and told 
 of an anxiety for her departure. This was 
 a source of pain, however, which was soon 
 to terminate. The vessel was fluno- loose 
 from the quay, her canvass was spread to 
 
160 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the breeze, and, in a few minutes, she had 
 glided out of the harbor, when, having gain- 
 ed sufficient sea-room, her bow was turned 
 down the Frith, and she bore away on her 
 voyao-e. It was now, for the first time, that 
 the solitary occupant of the cabin came 
 on deck. But he did not do this even 
 yet all at once. He stole slowly up the 
 companion ladder, and peered cautiously 
 around, before venturing to emerge entire- 
 ly. Seeing, however, that the vessel was 
 fairly at sea, he stepped on the deck, and 
 exhibited a very marked change of coun- 
 tenance. A load of uneasiness seemed to 
 have been removed from his mind ; and his 
 looks, before strongly expressive of terror 
 and alarm, were now cheerful and confi- 
 dent. The unfortunate passenger, however 
 for unfortunate he was, that was evi- 
 dent, of whatever nature were his sorrows 
 — was not long permitted to enjoy his new 
 and pleasurable feelings. 
 
 " There's a boat making after us," ex- 
 claimed the captain ; and immediately af- 
 terwards he issued orders to the men for- 
 ward to prepare for bringing the vessel to. 
 " Where is she .^" inquired the passen- 
 ger. (He was the only one in the ship.) 
 " Where is she .?" he said, with a look ex- 
 pressive of renewed apprehension, and 
 turning deadly pale as he spoke. 
 
 " There she is," said the captain, point- 
 ino- to a small boat that was evidently di- 
 recting her route towards them. 
 
 The young man looked at her for an 
 instant, then, without saying a word in re- 
 ply, or making any remark, slunk away 
 down again into the cabin, where, if any 
 one should now have followed him, and 
 seen the dreadful agitation with which his 
 whole frame was shaking, his haggard coun- 
 tenance, and white and quivering lip, they 
 would have little doubt that a load of un- 
 atoned guilt lay heavily upon him ; that he 
 had rendered himself amenable to the laws 
 of man as well as God, by the perpetra- 
 tion of some dark and heinous crime. 
 Their former suspicions of this would have 
 been confirmed, and they would have seen 
 
 that the wretched man was in terror of the 
 arm of justice overtaking him, and that he 
 dreaded that the boat which was now ap- 
 proaching contained those who would car- 
 ry him within its reach. In the meantime 
 the yawl advanced — it came alongside — 
 the young man heard voices — his heart 
 sunk within him — he threw himself back 
 and gasped for breath, and shook in every 
 limb, as if seized with a universal palsy. 
 Oh, that moment of horror and despair ! 
 Worlds could not compensate it — ages of 
 felicity would be dearly bought with it. It 
 was dreadful. Yet, after all, these were 
 but the fears of a guilty conscience, the 
 terrors of an excited imagination, associa- 
 ted with the consciousness of crime ; for 
 no one came near the solitary and terror- 
 stricken passenger — none disturbed him. 
 The boat that had come alongside shoved 
 off in a few minutes, with its crew, with- 
 out any communication of any kind reach- 
 ing him. He heard the " Good-bye !" of 
 the captain to the boat's company. He 
 heard their oars strike the water and grad- 
 ually grow faint in the distance. Joyful, 
 transporting sounds to him ! 
 
 "Thank God! thank God!" he ex- 
 claimed, fervently leaping to his feet in an 
 ecstasy of happiness, and, in the joyous 
 distraction of the moment, beating his 
 flushed forehead with the palm of his hand. 
 '' I have escaped, I have escaped ! Oh, 
 horrors ! to be taken, to be brought to trial, 
 to be hanged on a gibbet ! Yes, walk pin- 
 ioned up the ladder, led on the scafibld, 
 and exposed to the gaze of a pitying mul- 
 titude — that dreadful sea of human faces ! 
 Oh, horror, horror, horror ! But Pve es- 
 caped ! — I've escaped !" And the wretch- 
 ed youth burst into a flood of tears. " I've 
 escaped through Thy boundless mercy, 
 Almighty Father ! and it shall be the earn- 
 est endeavor, the sole object, of my future 
 life, to atone to Thee and to society for 
 the grievous offence of which I have been 
 guilty." 
 
 Such were the communings, of dark and 
 fearful import, of the solitary passenger in 
 
THE REFORMED. 
 
 161 
 
 the cabin of the Flora, on the occasion of 
 the visit ah-eadj described ; but no one 
 saw or heard ausrht of these commimings, 
 save Him to whom they were in part ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 After the lapse of about half an hour — 
 during which time the young man of whom 
 we are speaking, having regained, as he 
 believed, sufficient confidence and com- 
 posure to appear before the captain of the 
 vessel without exciting any suspicion of the 
 feelings by which he had been lately so 
 agitated — he ascended the cabin stair, and 
 came, though still not without some hesi- 
 tation, on deck. The young man, how- 
 ever, had not so much to fear from the 
 captain's penetration as he dreaded, this 
 being a quality with which the latter was 
 but very moderately gifted. In truth, he 
 neither sought to know, nor cared to know, 
 anvthino; at all about his passeno;er. The 
 lad had paid his money, was quiet and civil 
 in his demeanor, and put up cheerfully 
 with whatever fare was put before him ; 
 and this was quite enough for him. He 
 cared' nothing about the rest. It was, 
 therefore, with the same indifference and 
 apathy — not, however, by any means 
 amounting to unkindness — that the cap- 
 tain of the Flora, at the end of about six 
 weeks, landed his passenger on the Mole 
 at Cadiz, knowing as little about him when 
 he parted with him there, as he did when 
 he came on board of him in the harbor of 
 Leith. Neither had he ever inquired 
 whither he intended going after he got 
 ashore, or what he intended being about. 
 All that he did and said at parting was to 
 take the young man by the hand, shake it 
 cordially, and wish him " luck." 
 
 Having nothing farther to do with the 
 captain of the Flora, we shall now follow 
 the footsteps of his passenger, and see 
 whither they were bent, and what were 
 the intentions that directed them. 
 
 On gaining the town, he might have 
 been seen gazing, as he went along, on the 
 various signs that were exhibited over the 
 doors of stores, hotels, &c. , and to these 
 
 VOT,. TT. 
 
 alone his attention seemed chiefly directed. 
 He was in quest of quarters ; and these he 
 at length found in the house of a Scotch- 
 man, of the name of Andrew Scott, whose 
 national patronymic he saw blazoned above 
 his door, and which at once determined 
 his choice. 
 
 On entering the house and making him- 
 self known as a countryman, he was kindly 
 received by the landlord, who immediately 
 placed before him the best that both his 
 larder and cellar could produce, for which 
 he would take no other payment than such 
 news from Scotland as his guest could 
 give. Pleased with the lad's manner and 
 appearance, and judging from his dress 
 that his circumstances were not in a very 
 flourishing condition, the landlord, after 
 they had sat and talked themselves into 
 something approaching to familiarity, asked 
 his guest what were his views in coming 
 to Cadiz, whether he had any friends 
 there, &c. 
 
 The lad replied, that of the latter he had 
 none, and that, as to views, they were in- 
 definite. He had just come out on chance, 
 he said, to see whether he could not get a 
 situation as a clerk, or storekeeper, or 
 something of that kind. 
 
 "Dear me, man!'' replied his kind- 
 hearted host, "but that was rash o' ye — 
 to leave yer ain country and come here, 
 trusting to so slender a stay as chance. 
 Hae ye ony letters o' introduction, o' ony 
 kind, to onybody .?" inquired Andrew, in 
 a despairing tone, excited by the interest 
 he felt in the young man. 
 
 The latter replied that he had no letter 
 of any kind to any one. 
 
 " 'Od, man, it's a bad business, I doot," 
 said his host ; " but let me see" — and he 
 put his hand to his forehead, and thought 
 for a moment. " Aj, I'll tell ye what ye 
 may do : ye may ca' on Telford & Bogle, 
 the great wine-merchants ; they are baith 
 Scotsmen, thouQ-h Mr. Bogle's no here the 
 noo He's gane hame, and I dinna think 
 he'll ever come back again; for he's sair 
 broken doun in his health. I say ye may 
 
1G2 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ca' on them— that's on Mr. Telford — and 
 just plainly state yer case to him, and 
 there's nae sayin what he may do for ye, 
 seein ye 're a countryman, although I maun 
 say I hae nae great houps o' yer succeed- 
 in, seein that ye want recommendations : 
 but there can be nae harm whatever in 
 tryin. What's your name, lad .'^" added 
 Andrew, abruptly. 
 
 A slio'ht flush suffused the countenance 
 of his guest, and he answered, though not 
 without some delay and confusion — 
 
 " James Blackburn." 
 
 " Weel, James," continued his host, 
 " I think you had better wait on Mr. Tel- 
 ford, as I was sayin. Til conduct ye to 
 his store, and I think the sooner we go 
 the better." 
 
 To this proposal James — the name, add- 
 in o-, as occasion may require, his sirname, 
 by which we must henceforth designate the 
 passenger per the Flora — readily assent- 
 ed ; and, in a few minutes, the two set 
 out for the wine-vaults of Messrs. Telford 
 & Bogle. On arriving there, however, 
 they were disappointed to find only a clerk 
 — Mr. Telford having just gone away to 
 his country-house, about a mile out of 
 town. Under these circumstances, James' 
 case was stated to the person they found, 
 by the former's landlord, who acted as 
 spokesman for him, and his desire to get 
 into employment mentioned. The clerk 
 said, in reply, that he did not think there 
 was any chance of the applicant's getting 
 an eno-agement with them : but recom- 
 mended to him to go out directly to Mr. 
 Telford, and see that gentleman himself 
 on the subject. To this the young man 
 readily agreed ; and, as it was inconvenient 
 for his landlord to accompany him, he was 
 furnished with a sort of introductory line 
 to Mr. Telford, by the clerk. This line 
 merely stated that the bearer was a native 
 of Scotland, who had come out in quest of 
 employment as a clerk. With this docu- 
 ment the young man set out, having been 
 previously directed in the route he should 
 take by his host, who further desired him 
 
 I to let him know the result of his applica- 
 tion so soon as he returned. With this 
 friendly request he readily promised com- 
 pliance, and proceeded on his way. 
 
 On arriving at the superb villa of Mr. 
 Telford, Blackburn, on asking for that 
 gentleman, was ushered into his presence. 
 
 Having delivered his note of introduc- 
 tion — 
 
 " You are from Scotland, young man .'" 
 said Mr. Telford, after he had perused it, 
 " and you want employment .^" 
 
 Blackburn replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " Where are your letters of recom- 
 mendation .^" 
 
 " I have none, sir." 
 
 " What ! Did you come here without 
 any letters of recommendation.^" exclaim- 
 ed Mr. Telford, in surprise. " Have you 
 any testimonials as to character, then — 
 any document whatever, to warrant confi- 
 dence in you .-" 
 
 Blackburn said he had none — none what- 
 ever. 
 
 " That is most extraordinary," replied 
 Mr. Telford. " How, in all the world, 
 young man, could you think of coming to 
 a foreign country, in quest of employment, 
 without a scrap of testimonial or recom- 
 mendation with you ? You have really 
 drawn largely on chance. What is the 
 meanino; of it .'" 
 
 The young man modestly replied, that 
 he had never been in any employment be- 
 fore, and that, therefore, he could obtain 
 no recommendation from any persons 
 standing in that relation to him ; and that 
 his friends were too obscure, and in too 
 humble a walk in life, to render their tes- 
 timonials of any avail. 
 
 " But your clergyman," said Mr. Tel- 
 ford, — " could you not have got a testi- , 
 monial as to character from him .''" ' 
 
 On the mention of this person, his 
 " clergyman," the* young man became as 
 pale as death ; a general tremor came over 
 him, and he felt so confused and giddy 
 that it was some time before he could make 
 any reply. At length, he stammered out 
 
THE REFORMED. 
 
 163 
 
 the simple declaration, tliat he had never 
 thought of applying to him. 
 
 Mr. Telford remarked the young man's 
 sudden agitation ; but he attributed it to 
 a degree of nervousness, caused by the pe- 
 culiarity of his situation, which he felt 
 must be one of intense anxiety ; and, put- 
 ting this construction on it, it rather for- 
 warded than retarded Blackburn's views, 
 by exciting the sympathy of Mr. Telford. 
 
 " Well, young man," said that gentle- 
 man, after he had silently thought -for a 
 few moments, " I certainly do think it 
 very strange, very odd^ that you should 
 have come out here, in quest of employ- 
 ment, without any letters of recommenda- 
 tion or testimonials as to character ; yet, 
 as you are a countryman, and, I dare say" 
 — and here he glanced at Blackburn's ex- 
 terior, which, as we have already informed 
 the reader, was in but a very indifferent con- 
 dition — " not overly well provided against 
 disappointment, especially in a foreign 
 land, I will see what I can do for you. 
 Meet me at my counting-house to-morrow, 
 at ten o'clock. Now, James," (he had 
 previously learnt his name) "^ let me add,'' 
 continued Mr. Telford, " and I do so with 
 the view of inciting you to diligence and 
 attention, that, in finding some employ- 
 ment for you, without any recommenda- 
 tion or character, I do so partly out of 
 sympathy for your situation, and partly 
 because I have had so many scamps with 
 recommendations, and those of the very 
 strongest, that I am willing to make an 
 experiment on the services of one who has 
 none. I tell you this candidly, James, 
 and hope it will have that influence on 
 your conduct which has been my motive 
 for mentioning it to you." 
 
 Mr. Telford next asked Blackburn to 
 show him a specimen of his hand-writing. 
 He did so. His employer was highly 
 pleased with it — as, in truth, he well might, 
 for it was a remarkably fine one. 
 
 On the next day Blackburu: met Mr. 
 Telford, at his counting-house, agreeably 
 to appointment, and was immediately 
 
 placed at a desk, and set to work. The 
 first specimens of his qualifications for the 
 counting-house were found perfectly satis- 
 factory, and promised permanency to his 
 situation. This followed, and was subse- 
 quently secured by a regular agreement, 
 which put Blackburn in possession of a 
 competent salary. 
 
 At the end of about twelve months, du- 
 ring which time the young man had dis- 
 tinguished himself by unremitting atten- 
 tion to his duty, by uncommon business 
 talents, and by the most exemplary con- 
 duct, the head clerk of the establishment 
 died of a vi,rul8nt fever that was then de- 
 vastating Cadiz ; a similar visitation having 
 carried off other two clerks about the time 
 Blackburn entered Mr. Telford's employ- 
 ment. At the death of the head clerk, as 
 mentioned, the former, who had already 
 secured the highest opinion of his employ- 
 er, was appointed to his situation. On this 
 occasion Mr. Telford called him into his 
 private room, and, having shut the door, 
 told him of his intention to promote him 
 to the vacant situation. Having made 
 this communication, he desired him to sit 
 down. 
 
 " Now, James," said Mr. Telford, "you 
 see the confidence I put in you, by pla- 
 cino' the entire superintendence of my 
 establishment in your hands, and you will 
 not think it unreasonable if I expect simi- 
 lar confidence on your part. You have 
 never told me anything of your history, 
 neither have I asked you. I have hitherto 
 forborne, from motives of delicacy towards 
 you ; but, now that you are about to be 
 placed in so responsible a situation as that 
 of head clerk of our firm, I do think I 
 have some right to know a little more of 
 your history than I am yet acquainted 
 with. I trust you will see, James, that 
 this is not an idle or impertinent, but 
 perfectly reasonable curiosity." 
 
 It would not be easy to describe the 
 feelings of Blackburn on this address 
 being made to him. That they were 
 harrowing in the last degree, was evident 
 
164 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 from the sudden ashy paleness which 
 overspread his countenance, and the vio- 
 lent tremor with which his frame was 
 agitated. Mr. Telford marked those 
 signs of internal suffering, together with 
 the hesitation that accompanied them, and 
 said, though rather peevishly, and in a 
 tone that indicated somethino- like chao;rin 
 — it might be displeasure — 
 
 *' I would not pain you, James — I do 
 not ask you to give me your history under 
 any threat— you need not tell it unless 
 you like ; but I think you might have 
 more confidence in me." 
 
 Bursting into tears, the young man said, 
 " I will, sir — I will tell you a//, at 
 whatever risk," And, on regaining a little 
 composure, he began, and stated that he 
 was the son of a vintner in the Grass- 
 market of Edinburgh ; that his mother 
 had died while he was yet an infant ; that 
 his father had always had a hard struggle 
 with the world, being in straitened circum- 
 stances, and having but little business ; 
 that, notwithstanding this, he had given 
 him, who was his only child, a liberal edu- 
 cation, at the expense of great suffering 
 and privation to himself; that, as he grew 
 up, he became acquainted with a gang of 
 idle, dissolute lads, in whose company he 
 spent that time which should have been 
 devoted to his educational improvement, 
 or in assisting his father ; that his evil 
 propensities grew upon him with his years, 
 until he at lensjth deserted his father's 
 house altogether, and gave himself up to 
 a life of idleness and wickedness, coming 
 only home occasionally, to seek the means 
 of carrying on his infamous career ; that, 
 in the meantime, his father died, and that 
 the state of total destitution in which this 
 event left him, gradually opened his eyes 
 to the folly and wickedness of his conduct ; 
 that, on attaining a full sense of this, he 
 determined to reform, and to lead for the 
 future, such a life as would in some 
 measure, atone for his past misdemeanors ; 
 that he found the first step towards this 
 was to betake himself to some honest cal- 
 
 ling — but having none to recommend him, 
 and being but too well known in his native 
 city, as a lad of wild and loose habits, he 
 could find no employment ; that, in this 
 desperate situation, having neither friend 
 nor relation in Edinburgh, he determined 
 on quitting the city, and seeking to better 
 himself somewhere else ; that, happening, 
 while in this mood, to stroll down to Leith, 
 he saw a ticket on the vessel by which he 
 had come out, announcing that she was 
 bound for Cadiz ; and that he on the in- 
 stant determined to go with her, and trust 
 to chance for the rest, seeing that he 
 could not possibly be worse off abroad than 
 he was at home. 
 
 Such, in substance, was the story which 
 Blackburn told his employer ; and, so far 
 as it went, it was perfectly true in every 
 particular. It was the truth — nothing 
 but the truth ; but it was not the whole 
 truth. When Blackburn said he would 
 tell a//, he either said so with a mental 
 reservation, or his courage forsook him in 
 the course of his narration ; for he did 
 not tell all. There was one passage in his 
 life, one damning incident, which he did 
 not relate. What that was, will appear 
 in the sequel. 
 
 It was some time after the young man 
 had concluded, before Mr. Telford made 
 any reply to, or any remark on what had 
 just been related to him. At length, 
 however, he said with a smile : 
 
 " You have been, James, it would ap- 
 pear, from your own account, a sad boy 
 in your younger years. I hope, however 
 — indeed I have no doubt of it, from the 
 experience I have had of you — that you 
 will make it all up yet, and exhibit, in 
 your future conduct, more than enough to 
 compensate for the past. In the mean- 
 time, let me assure you that what you 
 have told me, has not in the least lessened 
 you in my opinion, or shaken my confi- 
 dence in you. On the contrary, your can- 
 dor, in stating the worst of yourself, has 
 increased it. Go and assume your new 
 duties, and believe that yom* story is per- 
 
THE REFORMED. 
 
 165 
 
 fectly safe in my keeping. None shall 
 know anything of it." 
 
 Here this interview, so interesting to the 
 parties concerned, terminated. Blackburn 
 repaired to his station in the counting- 
 house, and Mr. Telford shortly afterwards 
 went off to his country house. 
 
 The position of Blackburn seemed now 
 to be a very enviable one — and, so far as 
 circumstances went, it truly was so : but, 
 associated with these, there wa^ a misery, 
 a torture of mind, which forbade all happi- 
 ness, which poisoned all the sources of 
 enjoyment — nay, even the springs of life 
 themselves. In his new capacity, it was 
 Blackburn's peculiar duty to superintend 
 the shipment for Britain of all wines ex- 
 ported thither by the house to which he 
 belonged — a duty to which he always 
 evinced the utmost repugnance, although 
 he took great care that no expression of 
 tliis feeling should betray it. But whence 
 did this repugnance proceed ? What was 
 the cause of it ? It proceeded from an 
 unwillino-ness to be brouo-ht into contact 
 with any persons from his native country ; 
 and any one who could have marked the 
 agitation and misery which he appeared to 
 endure on these occasions, would, let his 
 guilt be what it might, have sincerely 
 pitied him. But it was when a vessel ar- 
 arrived, especially one from Scotland, that 
 bis mental sufferings were greatest. This 
 he dreaded most. For long after his 
 settlement in Cadiz, he grew pale on the 
 announcement of any ship's arrival, and 
 never seemed to breathe freely until it had 
 again jDut to sea. 
 
 But all this, as in a former instance, 
 was the result merely of a disturbed mind ; 
 for no vessel brought any evil tidings to 
 him, nor did the slightest circumstance 
 occur, externally, to disturb his tranquil- 
 lity. In the meantime, years rolled on, 
 and each, as it passed, added to Black- 
 burn's reputation as a steady, honorable, 
 and expert man of business. Each year, 
 too, added to his consequence and impor- 
 tance in the firm with which he was con- 
 
 nected. His control over its affairs was 
 unlimited — almost undivided ; for Mr. 
 Telford, the only partner on the spot, sel- 
 dom interfered — so great was his confi- 
 dence in the ability and integrity of his 
 chief clerk, and so highly satisfied was he 
 with everything he did. His salary, too, 
 was proportioned to his merits. It was 
 handsome — much beyond that of any 
 other person in a similar situation in Ca- 
 diz. These years, too, that had passed on, 
 had restored, in great part, that peace of 
 mind which had been so much wanting to 
 his happiness in former times. He now 
 no lono'er lived under the terror of recoo-- 
 uition, which had haunted him in previous 
 years ; or, if he did, it was but rarely, of 
 short continuance, and of a less formida- 
 ble character than was its wont. Time, 
 in short, the great anodyne for all diseases 
 of the mind, had smoothed down, nearly 
 obliterated, those feelings which had once 
 so grievously tortured him; and a long 
 immunity had dulled his apprehensions of 
 the consequences of that deed which had 
 excited them. 
 
 It was about this period — that is, some 
 eight or ten years after Blackburn's set- 
 tlement in Cadiz — that the remaining 
 partner of the firm, Mr. Telford, began 
 to entertain thouo-hts of returning: to his 
 native country. He had fallen into a state 
 of bad health, and lonofed to breathe the 
 air of his father-land. These thoughts 
 and wishes gained strength as his health 
 decayed, until they at length urged him 
 to the fixed determination of returnino" to 
 Scotland. Having come to this resolution, 
 he held a conference with his clerk, told 
 him of his intentions, and added that he 
 meant to leave him the entire charge of 
 the business and interests of the firm in 
 Cadiz, until he should see his partner, Mr. 
 Bogle, then in Scotland, when, he said, 
 he had no doubt he would obtain that gen- 
 tleman's consent to his being confirmed 
 their agent in Spain, or rather sole mana- 
 ger of their immense establishment there. 
 
 '^ I must return to Scotland, Mr. Black 
 
166 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 burn," said Mr. Telford, ^' and that im- 
 mediately, else I may never see my native 
 land. Yet I do not go with any very san- 
 guine hopes of recovery — I feel too far 
 gone for that j but I am desirous to lay 
 my bones beside those of my fathers, in 
 the little, lonely churchyard of my native 
 village. I think, too, I could die without 
 reluctance or regret, if I was blessed with 
 one other sight of the dear heath clad hills 
 of Scotland. It is almost all I now wish 
 for." 
 
 Thus spoke the dying merchant ; for 
 he was dying — that was made sufficiently 
 evident by his pallid countenance and 
 emaciated frame ; and thus was Blackburn 
 raised another step on the ladder of for- 
 tune. 
 
 In less than three weeks after this con- 
 versation took place, Mr. Telford broke 
 up his domestic establishment, and em- 
 barked for Scotland ; leaving his superb 
 villa with its furniture, to be occupied by 
 his representative, Mr. Blackburn. 
 
 In due time after the departure of the 
 former, the latter received a joint letter 
 from him and his partner, Tvlr. Bogle, ap- 
 pointing and confirming him their sole 
 agent at Cadiz, with power to act in every 
 case as he judged best for their interest. 
 To this was subjoined the agreeable inti- 
 mation of a large addition to his salary, 
 and the still more agreeable tidings, that 
 he was admitted a partner in the concern 
 of Messrs. Telford & Bogle, to the extent 
 of one fifth. 
 
 Blackburn now stood in a very elevated 
 position. He was a person of note, an 
 important man " on 'Change," and other- 
 wise of the highest respectability. But 
 his good fortune did not end here. In 
 little more than a year afterwards, Mr. 
 Telford, the principal of the firm, died. 
 On this event taking place, Mr. Bogle, 
 who was now an old man and in infirm 
 health, expressed, in a letter which he ad- 
 dressed to Mr. Blackburn, a desire to 
 withdraw from the firm altosrether, as he 
 felt himself wholly unable to take any fur- 
 
 ther active part in its concerns, or indeed 
 to attend to business of any kind ; and 
 concluded by making an offer of the whole 
 stock and interests of the firm to his cor- 
 respondent, on such terms as the laiter 
 could not but consider highly advantage- 
 ous. With this ofi'er Blackburn at once 
 closed ; and the necessary interchange of 
 documents on the subject having taken 
 place, Mr. Blackburn commenced business 
 on his own account, and with a success 
 that promised soon to conduct him to in- 
 dependence. 
 
 Having brought the history of our hero 
 to this point, we there leave him, and re- 
 sume our narrative after an interval of ten 
 years, with a change also of the scene of 
 the subsequent occurrences. 
 
 At the end of the period named, or to- 
 wards the close of the summer of 1764, a 
 vessel from Cadiz, loaded with wine, ar- 
 rived at the port of Leith. On board of 
 this vessel was a gentleman, the proprietor 
 of the cargo. This gentleman was Mr. 
 Blackburn. He had realized, during the 
 interval which we have passed over, a con- 
 siderable fortune ; but, while increasing 
 his means, he had been losing his health, 
 and this, latterly, so rapidly that he had 
 determined on quitting the country before 
 he should be so far enfeebled as to render 
 recovery hopeless. Having come to this 
 resolution, he made the necessary arrange- 
 ments for carrying it into execution, and 
 finally embarked for his native land. In 
 doing this, it was not his intention to 
 give up business, but merely to change 
 the scene of his exertions. He resolved 
 on commencing business in Edinburgh, his 
 native city, as a wine-merchant ; and 
 hence the reason of his brinarino- with him 
 the cargo of wine of which we have spoken. 
 
 On the wine being landed on the quay, 
 Mr. Blackburn might have been seen go- 
 ing amongst the casks or butts, and, after 
 tasting many, carefully selecting one. This 
 he ordered to be rolled out from amongst 
 the others, and, with his own hands, nailed 
 a card on it, bearing the address of " The 
 
THE REFORMED. 
 
 167 
 
 Rev. Dr. Marshall, Edinburgh." This 
 done, he dispatched it, by a cart, to its 
 destination. Conformably to his orders, 
 the carter drove the pipe of wine up to 
 the worthy doctor's door, and, summoning 
 out his housekeeper — for the doctor was 
 a widower — told her that it was for her 
 master, and requested to know where he 
 should put it. 
 
 '^ A pipe o' wine ! — a hail pipe o' wine, 
 for the doctor !" exclaimed Mrs. Brackin- 
 ridge — for such was the housekeeper's 
 name — in great surprise. " Preserve us, 
 that's an awfu' quantity! The doctor 
 never used to get in aboon three dizen at 
 a time. What in a' the yearth could 
 hae puttin't in his head to order a pipe ! 
 That'll last him twenty years, if he grows 
 nae drouthier than he used to be. But 
 are ye sure, honest man,'' continued Mrs. 
 Brackinridore, " that there's nae mistak in 
 the business .?" 
 
 " Sure aneuch," replied the man. " The 
 gentleman that aucht it, directed it wi' his 
 aiu hands." 
 
 "But I'm no sure o't," rejoined the 
 cautious housekeeper. " Wait there till 
 I go and tell the doctor about it." And 
 she hastened up to his study. 
 
 On entering the apartment — 
 
 " Save us, doctor !" she said, " here's 
 a man wi' a pipe o' wine on a cart at the 
 door — a hail pipe — and he says it's for 
 you." 
 
 " A pipe o' wine for me, Mrs. Brackin- 
 ridge !" replied the doctor, no less sur- 
 prised at the circumstance than his house- 
 keeper. " It's impossible ! There must 
 be some mistake in it !" 
 
 " I thocht that, doctor, and I said it 
 too ; but the man insists it's a' richt 
 aneuch ; an' if that be the case, ye ken, 
 we may just as weel tak it in at aince. 
 My certy ! we're no gaun to turn awa a 
 pipe o' wine frae the door withoot kennin 
 what for. It's no every day a win' fa' 
 like this comes oor way, an' I warrant it's 
 guid gear." 
 
 " I dare say it may, Mrs. Brackinridge," 
 
 replied the good doctor, smiling ; " but I 
 must know something more of it before I 
 can take possession of it. There must be 
 a mistake in it. Be so good as send the 
 man up to me.'' 
 
 The man was introduced. 
 
 " Who sent you," said the doctor to 
 him, " with this pipe of wine to me .'" 
 
 " A gentleman, sir, on the shore o' 
 Leith, that's landin a cargo o' wine frae 
 Cadiz." 
 
 " Do you know his name .^" 
 
 " Are you perfectly sure he desired you 
 to brino; it to me — to Dr. Marshall .?" 
 
 " Perfectly sure o' that, sir. He pat 
 on the direction wi' his ain hands, and 
 asked me three times owre if I kent ye, 
 and kent whar ye lived." 
 
 " It is very strange — most extraordina- 
 ry," replied the doctor ; " still I cannot 
 help thinking there is some mistake in it ; 
 but, since you are so positive as to your 
 instructions regarding the wine, you may 
 put it off, and I'll take charge of it. Have 
 I anything to pay you V 
 
 "Naething, sir — the gentleman paid 
 me, and paid me handsomely." 
 
 The pipe of wine was rolled ojBF the 
 cart, and deposited in a cellar of the doc- 
 tor's ; but, under a strong conviction that 
 there must be some mistake in the matter, 
 here he meant that it should lie untouch- 
 ed, until some further light should be 
 thrown on it ; and he had no doubt that a 
 short time would do this, and that the real 
 owner would soon appear." On the day 
 followino- that on which the occurrence 
 just related took place, a gentleman called 
 at Dr. Marshall's, and inquired if he was 
 within. He was answered in the affirma- 
 tive. " Could I see him V He was ush- 
 ered into the doctor's study. The doctor, 
 seeing in his visiter a remarkably well- 
 dressed and gentlemanlike person, rose 
 from his chair, and, with the kind affiibility 
 of his nature, requested him to be seated. 
 The stranger sat down. A prefatory con- 
 versation took place on common and indif- 
 
168 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ferent topics ; the doctor being of too 
 amiable and polite a nature to ask his 
 visitor in direct terms the purpose of his 
 call. For this he waited his own good 
 time, and this the more readily that he 
 found the conversation of the stranger 
 singularly agreeable and intelligent. At 
 length — 
 
 " I should think, sir," said the doctor 
 with a smile, and lookuag closely in the 
 face of his visitor, " that you have been in 
 foreign parts lately. You wear the hue of 
 a warmer climate than ours." 
 
 " I believe I do, sir," replied the stran- 
 ger, smiling, in turn ; " and there is little 
 wonder I should, seeing that I have been 
 for twenty years abroad, and have return- 
 ed but the other day." 
 
 " I conjectured as much," said the wor- 
 thy divine. " In what part abroad were 
 you, sir, if I may ask .^" 
 
 " Spain, sir— Cadiz," replied the stran- 
 ger, who, the reader will very likely have 
 conjectured, was Mr. Blackburn. It was he. 
 "Ah! indeed!" said the doctor — and 
 here a pause took place in the conversa- 
 tion. During this pause the doctor's vi- 
 sitor seemed struggling with some internal 
 emotion, as if gathering resolution to say 
 or do something of an unpleasant nature. 
 And this was the case. Suddenly rising 
 from his seat, and approaching Dr. Mar- 
 shall — 
 
 " Doctor," he said, " do you remem- 
 ber of being attacked on Leith Walk, 
 about twenty years ago, by a young man, 
 and robbed of twenty guineas .?" 
 
 "Remember it!" exclaimed the doctor. 
 
 — " I do, indeed, very well. It is impos- 
 sible 1 should forget it. But how, sir, 
 come you to know anything of that affair ? 
 I never mentioned it to a livino^ beino*. J 
 prayed for the unhappy youth ; but I 
 would not be instrumental in procurincr 
 the shedding of a fellovv-creature's blood; 
 and therefore it was that I mentioned the 
 occurrence to no one, and I thought that 
 it was known to none but to God and our- 
 selves — the injurer and the injured. How, 
 sir, may I ask you, did the circumstance 
 come to your knowledge ? Do you know 
 who the robber was ?" 
 
 "Doctor Marshall," said Mr. Black- 
 burn, with great emotion, "you see that 
 robber before you. — /was the man I" 
 / " You, sir ! — you the man !" exclaimed 
 the worthy doctor, with a look that would 
 l^e but feebly characterised as one of sur- 
 prise. " Impossible ! impossible !" 
 
 " Nay, sir, it is but too true. It was I 
 that robbed you ; and a miserable man 
 have I been since, although the gifts of 
 fortune have not been denied me ; but 
 they have hitherto been bestowed in vain, 
 and in vain still will they have , been be- 
 stowed, if I do not obtain your forgive- 
 ness. Here is the money I robbed you of, 
 and the pipe of wine I sent yon must be 
 accepted of for interest." 
 
 The repentant oGender was on his knees. 
 The good minister lifted him up and grant- 
 ed his forgiveness. Mr. Blackburn be- 
 came a worthy member of his congrega- 
 tion, and an intimacy existed between the 
 two till they were separated by death. 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 169 
 
 THE BROKEN HEAHT. 
 
 A TALE OF THE REBELLION. 
 
 Early in the November of 1745, the 
 news reached Canibridsie that Charles 
 Stuart, at the head of his harder ind devo- 
 ted Highlanders, had crossed the Borders 
 and taken possession of Carlisle. The in- 
 habitants gazed upon each other with ter- 
 ror, for the swords of the clansmen had 
 triumphed over all opposition ; they were 
 regarded, also, by the multitude, as savages, 
 and by the more ignorant as cannibals. 
 But there were others who rejoiced in the 
 success of the young Adventurer, and who, 
 dangerous as it was to confess their joy, 
 took but small pains to conceal it. A- 
 mongst these was James Dawson, the son 
 of a gentleman in the north of Lancashire, 
 and then a student at St. John's College. 
 That night he invited a party of friends to 
 sup with him, who entertained sentiments 
 similar to his own. The cloth was with- 
 drawn, and he rose and gave, as the toast 
 of the evening — " Prince Charles — and 
 success to himP^ His guests, fired with 
 his own enthusiasm, rose and received the 
 toast with cheers. The bottle went round 
 — the young men drank deep, and other 
 toasts of a similar nature followed. The 
 song succeeded the toast, and James Daw- 
 sen sang the following, which seemed to be 
 the composition of the day : — 
 
 " Free o"er the Borders the Tartan is streaming, 
 The dirk is unsheathed, and the claymore is gleaming. 
 The Prince and his clansmen in triumph advance, 
 Nor needs he the long-promised succours of France. 
 From the Cumberland mountains and Westmoreland 
 
 lake, 
 Each brave man shall snatch up a sword for his sake ; 
 And the • Lancashire Witch ' on her bosom shall wear 
 The snow-white cockade by her lover placed there." 
 
 But while he yet sang, and as he comple- 
 ted but the first verse, two constables and 
 three or four soldiers burst into the room, 
 and denounced them as traitors and as 
 their prisoners. 
 
 " Down with them !" exclaimed James 
 Dawson, springing forward, and snatching 
 down a sword which was suspended over 
 the mantelpiece. The students vigorously 
 resisted the attempt to make them prison- 
 ers, and several of them, with their enter- 
 tainer, escaped. 
 
 He concealed himself for a short time, 
 when, his horse being brought, he took the 
 road towards Manchester, in order to join 
 the ranks of the Adventurer. It was about 
 midday, on the 29th, when he reached the 
 town which is now the emporium of the 
 manufacturing world. On proceeding 
 down Market Street, he perceived a con- 
 fused crowd, some uttering threats, and 
 others with consternation expressed on 
 their countenance ; and, in the midst of 
 the multitude, was Sergeant Dickson, a 
 young woman, and a drummer boy, beat- 
 ing up for recruits. The white cockade 
 streamed from the hat of the sergeant ; the 
 populace vented their indignation against 
 him, but no man dared to seize him, for he 
 continued to turn round and round with a 
 blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd 
 on all sides, and threatening to shoot the 
 first man that approached, who was not 
 ready to serve the Prince, and to mount the 
 white cockade. The young woman carried 
 a supply of the ribbons in her hand, and 
 ever and anon waved them in triumph, 
 exclaiming — " Charlie yet." Some dozen 
 recruits already followed at the heels of 
 the sergeant. James Dawson spurred his 
 horse through the crowd. 
 
 " Give me one of your favors," said he, 
 addressing the sergeant. 
 
 " Ay, a dozen, your honor," replied 
 Dickson 
 
 He received the ribbon, and tied it to 
 his breast, and placed another at his 
 
170 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 horse's head. His conduct had an effect 
 upon the multitude ; numbers flocked a- 
 round the sei'geant, his favors became ex- 
 hausted ; and when the Prince and the 
 army entered the town in the evening, he 
 brought before him an hundred and eighty 
 men, which he had that day enlisted. 
 
 The little band so raised was formed in- 
 to what was called the Manchester regi- 
 ment, of which the gallant Townly was 
 made Colonel, and James Dawson one of 
 the Captains. 
 
 Our business at present is not with the 
 movements of Charles Edward, nor need 
 we describe his darino: march towards Der- 
 by, which struck terror throughout all 
 England, and for a time seemed to shake 
 the throne and its dynasty ; nor dwell up- 
 on the particulars of his masterly retreat 
 towards Scotland — suflfice it to say, that 
 on the 19th of December, the Highland 
 army again entered Carlisle. 
 
 On the following morning they evacu- 
 ated it ; but the Manchester regiment, 
 which was now composed of about three 
 hundred men, was left as a garrison to de- 
 fend the town, against the entire army of 
 proud Cumberland. They were devoted 
 as a sacrifice, that the Prince and the main 
 army might be saved. The dauntless 
 Townly, and the young and gallant Daw- 
 son, were not ignorant of the desperateness 
 and the hopelessness of their situation ; 
 but they strove to impart their own hero- 
 ism to the garrison, and to defend the 
 town to the last. On the morning of the 
 21st the entire army of the Duke of Cum- 
 berland arrived before Carlisle, and took 
 possession of the fortifications that com- 
 manded it. He commanded the garrison 
 to surrender, and they answered him by a 
 discharge of musketry. They had with- 
 stood a siege of ten days, during which 
 time Cumberland had erected batteries, 
 and procured cannon from Whitehaven : 
 before their firing the decaying zmd ne- 
 glected walls of the city gave way ; to 
 hold out another day was impossible, and 
 there was no resource left for the devoted 
 
 band, but to surrender, or perish. On the 
 30th, a white flag was hoisted on the ram- 
 parts. Cn its being perceived, the can- 
 non ceased to play upon the town, and a 
 messenger was sent to the Duke of Cum- 
 berland, to inquire what terms he would 
 grant to the garrison. 
 
 "Tell them," he replied, haughtily, 
 " I offer no terms but these — that they 
 shall not be put to the sword, but they 
 shall be reserved for his Majesty to deal 
 with them as he may think proper." 
 
 There was no alternative, and these 
 doubtful and evasive terms were accepted. 
 The garrison were disarmed, and under a 
 numerous guard placed in the cathedral. 
 
 James Dawson and seventeen others 
 were conveyed to London, and cast into 
 prison to await the will of his INlajesty. 
 Till now his parents were ignorant of the 
 fate of their son, though they had heard 
 of his being compelled to flee from the 
 University, and feared that he had joined 
 the standard of the Prince. Too soon 
 their worst fears were realized, and the 
 truth revealed to them. But there was 
 another who trembled for him, whose 
 heart felt as keenly as a parent's — she who 
 was to have been his wife, to whom his 
 hand was plighted, and his heart given. 
 Fanny Lester was a young and gentle 
 beino;, and she had known James Dawson 
 from their childhood. Knowledge ripen- 
 ed to affection, and their hearts were 
 twined together. On the day on which 
 she was made acquainted with his impris- 
 onment, she hastened to London to com- 
 fort him — to cheer his gloomy solitude — 
 at the foot of the throne to sue for his par- 
 don. 
 
 She arrived at the metropolis — she was 
 conducted to the prison-house, and admit- 
 ted. On entering the gloomy apartment 
 in which he was confined, she screamed 
 aloud, she raised her hands, and springing 
 forward, fell upon his neck and wept. 
 
 " My own Fanny !" he exclaimed, "you 
 here ! — weep not my sweet one — come, 
 be comforted — there is hope — every hope 
 
1HE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 171 
 
 — I shall not die — my own Fanny be com- 
 forted." 
 
 "" Yes ; — yes, there is hope — the King 
 will pardon you," she exclaimed, " he will 
 spare my James — 1 will implore your life 
 at his feet!" 
 
 " Nay, nay, love — say not the King," 
 interrupted the young enthusiast for the 
 house of Stuart ; " it will be but imprison- 
 ment till all is over — the Elector cannot 
 seek my life." 
 
 He strove long and earnestly to persuade, 
 to assure her, that his life was not in dan- 
 ger — that he would be saved — and what 
 she wished, she believed. The jailer en- 
 tered, and informed them it was tiine that 
 she should depart, ,and again sinking 
 her head upon his breast, she wept "-good 
 night." 
 
 But each day she revisited him, and 
 they spoke of his deliverance together. 
 At times, too, she told him with tears of 
 the efforts she made to obtain his pardon 
 — of her attempts to gain admission to the 
 presence of the King — of the repulses she 
 met with — of her applications to the nobili- 
 ty connected with the court — of the insult 
 and inhumanity she met with from some 
 — the compassion she experienced from 
 others — the interest they took in his 
 fate, and the hopes and the promises which 
 they held out. Upon those hopes and 
 those promises she fondly dwelt. She 
 looked into his eyes to perceive the hope 
 they kindled there, and as joy beamed 
 from them, she half forgot that his Life 
 hung upon the word of a man. 
 
 But his parents came to visit him ; hers 
 followed her, and they joined their efforts 
 to hers, and anxiously, daily, almost hour- 
 ly, they exerted their energies to obtain 
 his pardon. His father possessed an in- 
 fluence in electioneering matters in Lan- 
 cashire, and hers could exercise the same in 
 an adjoining county. That influence was 
 now urged, the members they had support- 
 ed were importuned. They promised to em- 
 ploy their best exertions. Whatever the 
 feelings or principles of the elder Dawson 
 
 might be, he had never avowed disaffection 
 openly — he had never evinced a leaning 
 to the family of Stuart — he had support- 
 ed the government of the day ; and the 
 father of Fanny Lester was an upholder of 
 the house of Hanover. The influence of 
 all their relatives, and of all their friends, 
 was brought into action ; peers and com- 
 moners were supplicated, and they pledged 
 their intercession. Men high in office 
 took an interest in the fate of James Daw- 
 son, or professed to take it ; promises, 
 half official, were held out — and when his 
 youth, the short time that he had been en- 
 gaged in the rebellion, and the situation 
 tliat he held in the army of the Adventu- 
 rer were considered, no one doubted but 
 that his pardon was certain — that he would 
 not be brought to trial. Even his parents 
 felt assured — but the word of the King was 
 not passed. 
 
 They began to look forward to the day 
 of his deliverance with impatience, but 
 still with certainty. Their was but one 
 heart that feared, and it throbbed in the 
 bosom of poor Fanny. She would start 
 from her sleep, crying — " Save him ! — 
 save him !" as she fancied she beheld them 
 dragging him to execution. In order to 
 soothe her, her parents and his, in the 
 confidence that pardon would be extended 
 to him, agreed that the day of his libera- 
 tion should be the day of their bridal. She 
 knew their affection, and her heart strug- 
 gled with her fears to believe the " flatter- 
 ing tale." 
 
 James tried also to cheer her — he be- 
 lieved that his life would be spared — he 
 endeavored to smile and to be happy. 
 
 " Fear not, my own Fanny," he would 
 say ; " your apprehensions are idle. The 
 Elector " 
 
 And here his father would interfere. 
 " Speak not so, my son," said the old man 
 earnestly, " speak not against princes in 
 your bed- chamber, for a bird of the air can 
 carry the tidings. Your life is in the 
 hands of a King — of a merciful one, and 
 it is safe — only speak not thus ! — do not, 
 
172 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 as you love me — as you love our Fanny, 
 do not." 
 
 Then would tbey chase away her tears, 
 and speak of the arrangements for the bri- 
 dal; and Fanny would smile pensively 
 while James held her hand in his, and, as 
 he gazed on her finger he raised it to his 
 lips, as though he took the measure of the 
 ring. 
 
 But, " hope deferred maketh the heart 
 sick ;" and though they still retained their 
 confidence that he would be pardoned, 
 yet their anxiety had increased, and Fan- 
 ny's heart seemed unable longer to contain 
 its agony and suspense. More than six 
 months had passed, but still no pardon 
 came for James Dawson. The fury of the 
 civil war was spent — the royal Adventurer 
 had escaped — the vengeance of the sword 
 was satisfied, and the law of the conquer- 
 ors, and the scafiblds of the law, called 
 for the blood of those whom the sword had 
 saved. The soldier laid down his weapon, 
 and the executioner took up his. On the 
 leaders of the Manchester regiment the 
 vengeance of the blood-thirsty law first 
 fell. It was on the evening of the 14th of 
 July, 1746, James Dawson sat in his pri- 
 son, Fanny sat by his side with her hand 
 in his, and his parents were present also, 
 when the jailer entered, and ordered him 
 to prepare to hold himself in readiness for 
 his trial, in the court-house at St. Mar- 
 garet's, Southwark, on the following day. 
 His father groaned — his mother exclaimed 
 *' my son !" — but Fanny sat motionless. 
 No tear was in her eye — no muscle in her 
 countenance moved. Her fingers grasped 
 his with a firmer pressure — but she evinc- 
 ed no other symptom of having heard the 
 mandate that was delivered. They rose 
 to depart, and a low, deep sigh issued from 
 her bosom : but she showed no sio-n of 
 violent grief — her feelings were already 
 exhausted — her heart could bear no more. 
 
 On the following day eighteen victims, 
 with the gallant Townly at their head, 
 were brought forth for trial before a grand 
 
 lury. 
 
 Amongst 
 
 them, and as one of the 
 
 chief, James Dawson. Fanny had insisted 
 on being present. vShe heard the word 
 guilty pronounced with a yet deeper apa- 
 thy than she had evinced at the announce- 
 ment of his trial. She folded her hands 
 upon her bosom, her lips moved as if in 
 prayer, but she shed not a single tear, she 
 breathed not a single sigh. She arose, 
 she beckoned to her attendants, and ac- 
 companied them from the court-house. 
 
 Still his friends entertained the hope 
 that the Pardon Power might be moved — 
 they redoubled their exertions — they in- 
 creased their importunities — they were 
 willing to make any sacrifice so that his life 
 might be but saved — and even then, at the 
 eleventh hour, they hoped against hope. 
 But Fanny yielded not to the vain thought. 
 Day after day she sat by her lover's side, 
 and she, in her turn, became his comfort- 
 er. She no longer spoke of their bridal — 
 but she spoke of eternity ; she spoke of 
 their meeting where the ambition, the ri- 
 valry, and the power of princes should be 
 able to cast no cloud over the happiness of 
 the soul. 
 
 Fourteen days had passed, and during 
 that he betrayed no sign of terror ; she 
 evinced none of a woman's weakness. She 
 seemed to have mastered her griefs, and 
 her soul was prepared to meet them. Yet, 
 save only when she spoke to him, her soul 
 appeared entranced, and her body lifeless. 
 On the 29th of July an order was brought 
 for the execution of the victims on the fol- 
 lowing day. James Dawson bowed his 
 head to the officer who delivered the war- 
 rant, and calmly answered — " I am pre- 
 pared." 
 
 The cries of his mother ran^ throush 
 the prison-house. She tore her hair — she 
 sank upon the floor — she entreated Heav- 
 en to spare her child. His father groan- 
 ed, he held the hand of his son in his, and 
 the tears gushed down his furrowed cheeks. 
 Fanny alone was silent — she alone was 
 tranquil. No throe of agony swelled her 
 bosom, flushed in her countenance, or burn- 
 ed in her eye. She was calm, speechless, 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 173 
 
 resigned. He pressed her to his ibosom, 
 as they took their last farewell. 
 
 " Adieu ! — adieu ! — my own !"he cried 
 — " my Fanny — farewell ! — an eternal 
 farewell !" 
 
 " Nay, nay," she replied, '' say not eter- 
 nal — we shall meet again. 'Tis a short 
 farewell — I feel it ! — I feel it. Adieu 
 love ! — adieu ! Die firmly. We shall 
 meet soon." 
 
 Next morning the prisoners were to be 
 draojofed on sledges to Kensino-ton Common, 
 whicTi was the place appointed for their 
 execution. In the first sledge was the ex- 
 ecutioner, sitting over his pinioned vic- 
 tims with a di^awn sword in his hand. No 
 priest — no minister of religion attended 
 them ; and around the sledge followed 
 thousands, some few expressing sympa- 
 thy, but the majority following from curios- 
 ity, and others venting their execrations 
 against all traitors. In the midst of the 
 multitude was a hackney coach, following 
 the sledges, and in it was the gentle Fanny 
 Lester, accompanied by a relative and a 
 female friend. They had endeavored to 
 persuade her from the fearful trial ; but 
 she was calm, resolute, and not to be 
 moved, and they yielded to her wish. The 
 coach drew up within thirty yards of the 
 scaffold ; Fanny pulled down the window, 
 and leaning over it, she beheld the piles 
 of fagots lighted around the scaffold — 
 she saw the flames ascend, and the soldiers 
 form a circle round them. She saw the 
 victims leave the sledge ; she looked upon 
 him whom her heart loved as he mounted 
 the place of death, and his step was fi.rin, 
 
 his countenance unmoved. She saw him 
 join in prayer with his companions, and 
 her eye was fixed on him' as hs flung papers 
 and his hat among the multitude. She 
 saw the fatal signal given, and the drop 
 fall — she heard the horrid shout, the yell 
 that burst from the multitude, but not a 
 muscle of her frame moved. She gazed 
 calmly, as though it had been on a bridal 
 ceremony. She beheld the executioner 
 begin the barbarities which the law awards 
 to treason — the clothes were torn from the 
 victims ; one by one they were cut down, 
 and the finisher of the law, with the horrid 
 knife in his hand, proceeded to lay open 
 their bosoms, and taking out their hearts, 
 flung them on the fagots that blazed around 
 
 CD O 
 
 the scaffold. The last spectacle of bar- 
 barity was James Dawson ; and when 
 the executioner had plunged the knife in 
 his breast, he raised his heart in his hand, 
 and holding it a moment before the hor- 
 ror-stricken and disgusted multitude, he 
 cast it into the flames 
 flung it from him, 
 George!" Fanny beheld this — her eyes 
 became blind— she heard not the shout of 
 the multitude ; she drew back her head 
 into the coajh ; it dropped upon the shoul- 
 der of her companion ; " My dear ! I fol- 
 low thee ! — I follow thee !" she exclaimed, 
 clasping her hands together ; " sweet Je- 
 sus ! receive both our souls together !" 
 They attempted to raise her head, to sup- 
 port her in their arms, but she sank back 
 lifeless ; her spirit had accompanied him 
 it loved ; she died of stifled agony and a 
 broken heart. 
 
 , exclaiming, as he 
 " God save King 
 
174 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDHIAC. 
 
 However deeply hidden from our limited 
 views may be the proximate principles of 
 the connexion between the body and the 
 mind of man, we have presented to us 
 every day the most undoubted proofs — and 
 melancholy, in many instances, they are — 
 of that connexion being of so intimate a 
 nature, and depending upon such fine and 
 subtle jnedia, that the ordinary affections 
 of the two are reciprocated with the great- 
 est regularity and precision, while their 
 derano-ements, diseases, and extraordinary 
 excitements, produce mutual effects which 
 are not only disastrous and terrible, but so 
 varied and unexpected that they mock all 
 our anticipations of the results of their 
 exciting causes. For all those changes 
 which affect the entireness of the mind, we 
 are naturally led to look to diseases and 
 injuries affecting the brain itself; while, 
 for those again which mark a decrease of 
 its energies, we may resort to the ample 
 field of bodily ailments, the most of which 
 — and there are thousands that " flesh is 
 heir to" — extend their " tear and wear " 
 to the seat of thought and feeling ; and, 
 though they cannot break, weaken and 
 wear out the noble powers whose arrogated 
 superiority is sometimes doomed to this 
 humiliation. 
 
 Yet there are occasional diseases of the 
 body (not to our senses organically affect- 
 ing the brain) which produce changes on 
 the faculties of the mind different from the 
 general mental weakness incident to most 
 states of protracted bodily suffering. Cer- 
 tain affections of the lungs, for instance, 
 while they reduce the body to the state of 
 a living skeleton, supply such an addition 
 to the oil of the "lamp of hope," that the 
 deluded victim sees its bright coruscations 
 through the eye that is in the act of being 
 fixed and glazed by death. In some scor- 
 butic affections, again, the mind increases 
 
 in strength in proportion as the body ad- 
 vances to a state of putrescency ; as if the 
 soul, rejoicing in its victory over the flesh, 
 that had strugorled with it and mastered it, 
 
 CO 7 
 
 mocked the vain dreams of the infidel ma- 
 terialist, by making its last act its bright- 
 est, while that of the body is its weakest. 
 In that great viscus or laboratory of bile, 
 the liver, there, however, often occurs a 
 disease, named by the ancients, from the 
 seat of its primary action, hypochondriasis^ 
 which exercises an influence over the mind 
 beyond all the powers of the most painful 
 and fatal diseases that do not affect the 
 brain itself. This action, like that of the 
 diseased lungs, is almost always of one 
 particular kind ; and it is curious to con- 
 template the difference between the effects 
 of the two diseased viscera — the one, 
 namely, the diseased lungs, producing 
 hope and confidence ; and the other, the 
 diseased liver, filling the mind with fear 
 and apprehension. It is no part of my 
 purpose to speculate on these extraordi- 
 nary facts ; otherwise I might enter on the 
 fine question, which has been so strangely 
 overlooked by metaphysicians — namely, 
 What is the principle of the connexion 
 between those feelings of hope and fear 
 produced by metaphysical excitement, and 
 the ideas of the particular objects of the 
 feelings which always accompany them ? 
 The trembling hypochondriac has for ever 
 in his nervous eye his peculiar object of 
 terror, either real or imaginary ; and just 
 in proportion as his terror is without foun- 
 dation, does he adhere to the imaginary 
 cause of it with greater asperity and de- 
 termination, resisting, with the greatest 
 pertinacity, every effort to make him be- 
 lieve the fact that he dreams of imaginary 
 ills, and that even the bright star of 
 worldly prosperity is in the ascendant and 
 shinincr so bris-ht that no one who is not 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 175 
 
 blmd or unwilling to see can escape its 
 light. 
 
 The objects of the hypochondriac's fears 
 are as numerous and extraordinary as the 
 whims and caprices of the most pregnant 
 fancy — comprehending the case of the 
 Dutchman, who, thinking himself a pea 
 of grain, was under continual fear of being 
 picked up by birds ; that of the residenter 
 at Elgin, who, conceiving himself to be 
 a sack of chaff, was in hourly terror of 
 being sat upon and smothered by his 
 visitors ; that of an individual of Edin- 
 burgh, who was under the greatest alarm 
 at the sight of a cloud, lest it should fall 
 upon him and kill him ; and that of the 
 familiar " man of glass " — all of which 
 are apt to excite in us a smile, in little 
 accordance with the misery of the unhap- 
 py victims ; — yet the most ordinary form 
 of, the. hypochondriac's apprehension is a 
 sick, melancholy despondency and despair, 
 resulting from, or producing an imaginary 
 embarrassment of his 'pecuniary affairs; 
 he sees, in the womb of futurity, all the 
 dreadful forms which poverty, clothed with 
 rags and gnawed with hunger, assumes in 
 the lives of unfortunate men ; and is im- 
 pressed with the conviction, which all his 
 own or his friends' efforts cannot subdue, 
 that such a fate — privation, contempt, 
 disgrace, the scorn of the world, and death 
 by starvation under a hedge, or in a ditch 
 by the way-side — awaits him inevitably at 
 no distant day. 
 
 Of all the cases that have come under 
 my personal observation — and there have 
 been many, more or less marked with stri- 
 king peculiarities — that of Mr. H , 
 
 the West India merchant, is the most re- 
 markable. The malady we are now con- 
 sidering seldom takes a turn so obstinate 
 and calamitous as in this case ; yet such 
 is the great tendency of people in a mer- 
 cantile country like ours (where competi- 
 tion and the strife of personal interests 
 assume often the strength of strong pas- 
 sions, and where a failure is looked upon, 
 not undeservedly, as a gigantic evil) to 
 
 sink into fits of moping melancholy, and 
 assume false and distorted views of theii 
 condition, that few will fail to find, in the 
 details of this remarkable case, some fea- 
 tures, though on a large scale, of their 
 own situations, at times when they are 
 under the domination of the dark genius 
 of despondency— the attendant of all those 
 who are fated to struggle through a hard 
 world. 
 
 When I was first called to Mr. H , I 
 
 was ushered into a house of great size and 
 splendor, suited to the style of life of a 
 successful West India merchant. In an 
 
 outer room I saw Mrs. H , a lady 
 
 somewhat advanced in life, who happily 
 combined the manners of a gentlewoman 
 with the kindness and frankness which 
 pride too often displaces from the hearts 
 and faces of the rich, to make room for 
 the haughtiness which is deemed the 
 badge of the great. By her side, sat a 
 young woman about twenty years of age 
 (whom, in the course of conversation, she 
 called Angelina), her daughter, possessed 
 of what, to the eye of the greater part of 
 mankind, would have appeared extraordi- 
 nary beauty, but which, to my professional 
 observation, was only the extreme deli- 
 cacy, the pure hyacinthine tint, the clear 
 transparent skin, and the fair auburn hair 
 of the victim of a strumous habit, which 
 she had received by hereditary right from 
 her mother, who presented the same bril- 
 liant but fallacious appearances of the 
 characteristics of a beautiful blond. The 
 vivacity and sensibility so often found in 
 young women of her peculiar constitution, 
 were also apparent ; suggesting to my 
 mind, as they must do to every person who 
 has any claims to feeling, the regret that 
 qualities so exquisite should so often be 
 found associated with, if not resulting 
 from, an unnatural state of the system of 
 
 the body. Mr. H was, they informed 
 
 me, ailing in a very slight degree ; but 
 my inquiries were incapable of extracting 
 the precise nature of his complaint ; the 
 old lady insisting upon its being nothing 
 
176 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 but an attack of spleen, and tlie young 
 on^, in her peculiar, sprightly way, urging, 
 with a smiling countenance, that her fa- 
 ther's disease was pure ill- nature — a com- 
 plaint which she feared no doctor could 
 cure. I tried to undeceive her, and told 
 her that we possessed some secrets, one of 
 which was the power of making men laugh 
 as well as dance ; but I was soon told, by 
 the old lady, that her daughter Angelina 
 was not behind me in that respect ; for 
 that she not only possessed that power, 
 but exercised it every hour of the day — a 
 compliment, she thought, to the victim of 
 high-toned nerves, but in my opinion, the 
 description of a misfortune. 
 
 I found Mr. H^ sitting in his bed- 
 room, which was purposely darkened, by 
 half-closed shutters, to a dismal gloom. 
 He was in his morning gown, with his 
 head enveloped in large rolls of flannel, 
 and his feet, encased in a pair of yellow 
 Morocco slippers, placed on a footstool 
 before a large fire, into which he seemed to 
 be looking with that intent gaze which the 
 winter comforter often charms from the 
 victims of ennui. As he turned his face 
 upon me when I entered, I got read to 
 me at once the enigmatical accounts of his 
 wife and daughter, in the yellow bilious 
 tinge which covered all the white part of 
 his eyes, and imparted to the pupil that 
 heavy, lethargic, and sleepy look which 
 accompanies, as a sure companion, all 
 cases of morbid melancholy, arising from 
 diseased state of the liver ; but, in many 
 instances, alternates with sudden expres- 
 sions of apprehension and fear, as if the 
 patient dreaded the approach of personal 
 danger. His jaws were elongated by the 
 pressure of despondency, whose' influence 
 could be also traced in the flaccid muscles, 
 hanging eye-brows, drooping head, and all 
 the other well-known symptoms of a de- 
 pressed and clouded mind, into which the 
 radiant bow of hope has been unable to send 
 any of its many-colored rays. I observed, 
 at first, no indications of the morbid, hare- 
 eyed look of terror and apprehension 
 
 which, in patients of this class, I always 
 search for with great solicitude, as being 
 a sisrn of somethina; much more serious 
 than what the vulgar understand by hypo- 
 chondria ; and indicatinor that advance- 
 ment of the progress of the real malady, 
 when it lays its dreadful grasp on some of 
 the faculties of the mind. But I was 
 assured, from the other advanced symp- 
 toms exhibited to me, that there was great 
 danger of the disease of the patient reach- 
 ing, if it had not already reached, that un- 
 happy climax ; and my attention behoved 
 to be directed to further indications of a 
 more decided character, generally elicited 
 by a conversation, wherein the patient falls 
 naturally into the train of thought sug- 
 gested by the state of his feelings, and best 
 calculated for rousing them, forcing out 
 the expression of his sentiments, whether 
 morbid or natural, and showing the true 
 state of his disease. 
 
 I was surprised at hearing him state, 
 somewhat sullenly, that he had not sent 
 for me ; but I mentally recurred to the 
 conversation I had with his wife and 
 daughter, and surmounted this difficulty, 
 at the expense of my pride, by stating, 
 jocularly, that the solicitude of an afi"ec- 
 tionate consort was, through the love and 
 gratitude of a good husband, a sufficient 
 authority for the attendance of a doctor — 
 a remark which was responded to by a 
 splenetic growl, accompanied by the hasty 
 choleric statement (disproved by his gown 
 and flannels) that there was nothing the 
 matter with him. But his natural polite- 
 ness, overcome for a moment by his dis- 
 ease, vindicated its authority, and pro- 
 duced an expression of regret that he had 
 allowed his changed temper, as he called 
 it, to ' hurry him into rudeness ; a fault 
 which he was never guilty of until latter- 
 ly, that some cloud having come over his 
 mind, had obscured his perceptions of eti- 
 quette, as well as destroyed the contented 
 and happy tone of mind he used to enjoy 
 in the midst of his prosperity. I was 
 easily appeased, and soon got him engaged 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 177 
 
 in conversation, avoiding all direct allu- 
 sion to his ailment— wbicli, in so far as it 
 regarded its true character, was clearly a 
 secret to himself — and followinjr him into 
 those trains of thought which seemed to 
 produce the strongest interest in him, 
 though of little importance to myself. 
 
 Breaking off, with the greatest abrupt- 
 ness, from a subject started by himself, 
 he pronounced, in a dolorous tone of 
 voice, accompanied with a deep-drawn 
 sigh that heaved all his chest, the name 
 of an old school companion of his ; throw- 
 ing upon me, as he ejaculated, " Pqor 
 George ! poor George I" one of those tim- 
 id looks, which, during my long practice, 
 I have never mistaken for a true symptom 
 of the real hypochondria. His words be- 
 trayed mere sympathy for the fate of George 
 
 B ; but his eyes spoke a language 
 
 different from that of sorrow ; dartino; 
 forth, as they now seemed to eschew a 
 supposed incorporated presence, looks of 
 terror, mixed with supplicatory glances of 
 pity, while occasional shivers ran over his 
 body, like the effects of sudden dashes of 
 cold water on the bare skin. This moral 
 ague remained for some, his eye still alter- 
 nating between the expressions of terror 
 and pity — now fixed on me, now on empty 
 space, and now averted from an ideal 
 object ; and ejaculations, " God preserve 
 me from such a fate !" bursting from him 
 in deep groans. I saw in all this, the re- 
 vealed workings of the dreadful disease I 
 have met in so many forms ; and waited 
 patiently until the exacerbation of terror 
 had passed, that I might probe the cause 
 of the apprehension of his imaginary evil, 
 with a view to an endeavor to divest it of 
 its supposed danger. He calmed, and 1 
 
 inquired who this man George B was, 
 
 whose fate called from him such intense 
 expressions of pity. 
 
 " Who is he !" exclaimed he, in a 
 voice cracked and unnatural, while the 
 same expression of pity and terror occu- 
 pied his face — " who does not know 
 George B , the West India merchant, 
 
 VOL. ir. 12 
 
 who has fallen with the quickness of a 
 tumbling balloon voyager, from the heights 
 of grandeur, riches, and fame, to beggary, 
 rags, and hunger } Heavens ! what a 
 sight met these eyes on Sunday week, as 
 I took my last airing by Nicholas' Park ! — 
 I have not yet recovered from it. George 
 B — — , the proud, and aristocratic, the 
 
 haughty George B , sitting by the 
 
 road side supplicating alms ! — ay, he con- 
 descended to beg from one to whom he 
 had once lent two thousand pounds !" 
 
 He paused, with his eye fixed on the 
 imaginary object of his vision, while a tear, 
 a tribute to the pity which for a moment 
 had expelled from his mind the terror, 
 bedewed the orb, now strained to the ut- 
 most, as if he struggled for a better sight 
 of the victim of misfortune, 
 
 " We began the world together," he 
 continued, in a more subdued tone ; ^' but 
 he distanced me in the race of prosperity. 
 By one shipment of tobacco — in that old 
 ship the Emerald, which, after he sold 
 her, sunk near the Malaccas — he cleared 
 seven thousand pounds ; and, by two 
 voyages of the Dolphin, he made as much 
 more. Fortune rained gold on him, till 
 he would scarcely stoop to pick it up. 
 Disdaining the vulgar gift of dowries he 
 married a beauty. On great occasions he 
 put two more horses than were used hj 
 the ordinary slow-paced children of for- 
 tune, to drag him in state, or imitate the 
 quickness of his own prosperity. Yet, 
 no one called this dizzy extravagance ; for 
 every one thought he could stand higher 
 flights ; but sir," (pausing, exhibiting in- 
 dications of great distress, and throwing 
 on me timid looks,) " he did not insure 
 the ximphitritc, though she was scarcely 
 sea-worthy, and he had thirty thousand 
 pounds between her rotten timbers. Well 
 does the wise man say, ' the rich man's 
 wealth is his strong city.' The confi- 
 dence of wealth made him despise the 
 winds and the waves ; but they, in their 
 turn, despised the Amphitrite, and dashed 
 her to pieces on the rocks of Staten Island. 
 
178 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Yet was not his confidence abated : though 
 he had read what has been written, ' He 
 that is surety for a stranger shall smart for 
 it,' he became surety for me who paid my 
 bond ; and for others who did not pay their 
 bond. The smiles of fortune were changed 
 to frowns. I tremble when I think how 
 fearfully we merchants are subjected to the 
 mutable tyranny of that subtle and cruel 
 goddess. The gold that rained on him 
 disappeared, his creditors hated him, his 
 debtors despised him, his friends deserted 
 him, and she, his beautiful wife, who had 
 come to him without a dowry, went with- 
 out a jointure — ^ay, and without regret. 
 Oh ! why was I not spared the sight of 
 
 that apparition — Ge<)rge B , with no 
 
 shoes on his feet ; a ragged napkin bound 
 round his temples ; a coat through which 
 the cold winter winds blew ; hungry, cold, 
 wretched, miserable — begging from me — 
 from me — a penny to assuage the pangs of 
 starvation !" 
 
 He shuddered as he pronounced the last 
 of these words ; pressing his arms to his 
 sides, clasping firmly his hands, and grind- 
 ing his teeth, in an apparent effort to re- 
 sist or bear an exacerbation of terror that 
 shook him to the centre, and wrung from 
 him, in spite of himself, the prayer — " O 
 God, avert from me this fate !" But he 
 got no confidence from heaven ; for all 
 this suffering was succeeded by the same 
 expression of terror I had already detect- 
 ed. Looking at me askance, he volunta- 
 rily, yet timidly construed and explained 
 these extraordinary symptoms by a single 
 remark. 
 
 " Is it not possible," said he — " I mean 
 is it not" (pausing and looking fearfully), 
 "is it not likely — probable — that I may 
 yet beg ?" 
 
 It will not be easy for me to forget the 
 look that accompanied these words, though 
 I have seen the terror-stricken orb of the 
 hypochondriac in its most nervous parox- 
 ysm. The mystery was now explained ; 
 and, having detected the patient's disease, 
 I framed my answer in such a form as 
 
 might have some chance (although I knew 
 its extent was small) of allaying his fear. 
 
 " So far as I can judge," replied I, 
 '' scarcely anything can be pronounced 
 more improbable than that you should be 
 brought to that condition. You forget en- 
 tirely that you yourself have accounted for 
 
 George B 's misfortunes. He made 
 
 money too easily ; and, having too much 
 of it, he despised it. You know what the 
 proverb says — ' Hast thou found honey : 
 eat so much as is suiB&cient for thee, lest 
 thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.' 
 Your friend vomited his wealth. Why 
 engaged he in suretyship — an imprudence 
 railed against from the days of Solomon, 
 whose saying, applicable to it, you have 
 yourself quoted .? '■ The Lord is the ma- 
 ker of the rich and the poor ;' but the rich 
 man unmakes himself. Even when your 
 friend saw danger approaching, he did not 
 ' hide himself;' but, like the simpleton, 
 ^ passed on and was punished.' If a man 
 bring himself to ruin by imprudence, an- 
 other may surely avoid that ruin, by that 
 virtue which comprehends all others — 
 prudence — divine prudence. 
 
 As I spoke, he eyed me incredulously. 
 My reference to holy writ seemed to touch 
 a chord that startled him and increased 
 his distress. With that triumphant cun- 
 ning which his unfortunate class use in the 
 supposed detection of schemes to allay 
 their fear, he cried out in great agita- 
 tion — 
 
 " Ha! you avoid the great, the import- 
 ant sentence — and I know why you avoid 
 it ; but you cannot deceive me by trying 
 to make me believe it is not in the holy 
 book ; for I dream of it — it haunts me day 
 and night — and why should I not believe 
 the words of inspiration } Hear them — 
 ' Boast not thyself of to-morrow ; thou 
 knowest not what a day may bring forth ; 
 for riches take wings and fly away as an 
 eagle towards heaven.' These, sir, are 
 the fearful words ; and we have, besides, 
 the experience of the world to teach us 
 that rich men become beggars — dreadful 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 179 
 
 fiitc ! — beggars, sir, in spite of all the 
 prudence and wisdom of Solomon !" 
 
 " Yes," replied I ; " but the confidence 
 of a prudent man, in the stability of his 
 fortune, is not to be shaken by the experi- 
 ence of the fate of the imprudent man who 
 has thrown his liehes to the winds. Jf you 
 had not insured the Mermaid, which, from 
 hearing of her launch some time ago, I 
 understand is one of your valuable vessels, 
 you might have dreaded the fate that re- 
 sulted from not insuring the Amphitrite." 
 
 " And I have not insured the Mermaid P'' 
 screamed he, with a voice that pierced tbe 
 tympanum of my ears like a sharp instru- 
 ment. — ^^ I have not insured the Mermaid^'''* 
 he repeated, with a kind of yell, as he fell 
 back on his chair, with his face covered by 
 his ao-ue-struck hands. 
 
 I was unprepared for this sudden burst ; 
 for I had hazarded the remark, trustino-to 
 this generally esteemed, prudent and 
 somewhat close-handed man havino- fol- 
 lowed the practice of cautious merchants, 
 in insurino; a new and untried vessel. The 
 agitation into which I had involuntarily 
 thrown him prevented me from looking 
 calmly at the true and limited import of 
 my simple remark, which, without a su- 
 peraddition of some secret cause of ap- 
 prehension, never could have produced 
 such a terrible effect, even on a hypo- 
 chondriac. As he still lay strusfo-lino; with 
 his appulse of apprehension, I hastened to 
 remove the cause of alarm, in the only 
 way which seemed clear and certain. 
 
 " You may s/i// insure the Mermaid," 
 said ], " wherever she is. No office will 
 refuse to undertake the risk of a sea-wor- 
 thy ship that has not exceeded her time." 
 
 Taking his trembling hands from off his 
 face, he fixed his eyes on me with that wild 
 look which shows that terror is, for a 
 moment, under the self-excruciatina: dom- 
 ination of despair. 
 
 " When the helm is sunk in the quick- 
 sands of Newfoundland," he cried, in a 
 heart-piercing-tone, '^ and the mizzen is 
 whirling in the eddies of the Gulf-Stream, 
 
 what less would the premium be than 
 cent, per cent. V 
 
 He wrung his hands as he ejaculated 
 these words, and fixed his eye intensely 
 on some ideal object, as if he had seen the 
 doomed vessel that held a great part of 
 his, treasures torn to pieces by the ravages 
 of the storm — the rudder in the act of 
 being imbedded in the quicksands — and 
 the masts drifting along, the sport of the 
 wind and waves. He remained in that 
 position, for some time, drawing deep 
 sighs, and apparently unconscious of my 
 presence. I was much perplexed. 1 had 
 got no intellio;ence of the loss of the Mer- 
 maid — an event which, from her great 
 size, would have produced some noise ; 
 and the conduct of his wife and daughter 
 was inconsistent with the knowledge of a 
 loss that might bring them to beggary. At 
 the same time I was not so well assured 
 of the absolute extent of the patient's 
 disease, as to be able to conclude, upon 
 the instant, that he merely imagined the 
 loss of the vessel. He may have got 
 secret intelligence of the disaster; and, 
 strong as the paroxysm was that had sha- 
 ken him in the manner I had witnessed, 
 its intensity would have been no overact- 
 ing of the true, natural^ healthy agony of 
 truth — such truth — operating on a sound 
 mind. In this uncertainty, I was at a 
 loss what to do or what to say. The un- 
 happy man still sat under the influence of 
 the dreadful charm with which truth or 
 disease had invested the creation of his 
 fancy, on which his mind and gaze were 
 intently fixed. To have questioned him, 
 or argued with him farther, would, on 
 either of my suppositions, have been im- 
 proper, and to have called in Mrs. H 
 
 would have produced alarm, either for the 
 soundess of her husband's mind or the 
 safety of the vessel. My only course 
 seemed to be, to change, in the meantime, 
 the conversation — if indeed it was possible 
 to engage his mind on any other topic — 
 and wait until I got information that would 
 enable me to act with greater decision. 
 
180 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " There is a sudden fall in the exchange 
 between this country and Russia," said I, 
 endeavoring to catch his eye. 
 
 '' Ha I it will not do, sir," he replied, 
 looking at me suspiciously and fearfully — 
 " you are not able, by this sleight, to con- 
 ceal from me that dreadful truth. That 
 may be one of your modes of cure ; but 
 can you put together the floating pieces of 
 the wreck of the Mermaid ? Unless you 
 can do that you cannot mend my.broken 
 mind. This attempted imposition, though 
 well intended, increases my agony, already 
 insufferable : why don't you do as George 
 
 B 's friends persisted in doing, after 
 
 the Amphitrite^s loss was blazed at Lloyd's 
 — why don't you boldly say at once, that 
 the ship is not lost ? That is the common 
 worldly way of excruciation. But you 
 cannot, you cannot — the thing is too clear 
 for that, your courage is not sufficient, 
 and my penetration too keen. Would to 
 Heaven 1 had, at this moment, the luxury 
 of one faint, desperate doubt !" 
 
 " I have not heard any intelligence of 
 such a loss," said I, forced to continue the 
 subject. 
 
 " I know it, I know it, sir," replied he 
 — "that is a gentler way of performing 
 the operation of bandaging the eyes, that 
 one may not see the death that is carried 
 on the point of the amputating knife. But 
 it cannot thus be concealed ; for it is felt 
 through every nerve and muscle, and, 
 mounting to the brain which it maddens, 
 is independent of the eyes," (pausing and 
 lowering his voice to a whisper.) " When 
 a truth is beyond cavil and suspicion, be- 
 lieve me it is best to let it alone — there 
 is a certain stage of a disease when the 
 certainty of death itself is no longer con- 
 cealed from the patient. The man that 
 would attempt to make me believe that 
 the Mermaid is not lost, I would consider 
 my enemy as well as an impostor. Sym- 
 pathy is best exerted in endeavoring to 
 enable us to support evils that can neither 
 be concealed nor averted. I say endeavor- 
 ing, for my evil is insupportable. I can- 
 
 not face beggary : yet whither can I fly 
 for relief.'* Mercy ! Heaven ! mercy ! on 
 the beggared bankrupt, who cannot live 
 by the wayside, and yet cannot die there ! 
 Horrible destiny !" 
 
 His feelings were now, by the workings 
 of his mind, which I had unfortunately 
 stimulated, raised to the highest pitch of 
 mortal suffering. He continued repeating 
 the words " horrible destiny," as the fear- 
 ful images of want and beggary he con- 
 jured up stood revealed before him, like 
 impersonations. His eye still sought the 
 ideal creations, as if they had been reali- 
 ties existing beside him, and operating on 
 him by the power of a charm ; yet at in- 
 tervals he seemed to recoil from them with 
 horror, and fixed on me a look expressive 
 of the supplication of pity. In my igno- 
 rance of the true state of his affairs, I was 
 doing the man injury. I could not with 
 safety risk another remark ; for everything 
 I had yet said had aggravated the terrors 
 to which he was clearly enslaved. Start- 
 ing up as I suddenly recollected an en- 
 gagement, I hurriedly took my departure, 
 obliged to leave him still in the grasp of 
 the holotonic that convulsed his whole 
 frame. 
 
 On reaching the ante-room, into which 
 I had been first introduced, I found Mrs. 
 
 H and Angelina, alono; with a genteel 
 
 young man named ^ Augustus A , who 
 
 seemed to be on terms of great intimacy 
 with the family, and whose eloquent ocu- 
 lar conversation with the young lady, led 
 me to suspect that the intimacy would one 
 day be changed into relationship. As I 
 entered, the sprightly, volatile girl came 
 running forward, and, taking me by the 
 hand, asked me if her father, by my 
 means, had yet recovered his usual good 
 nature. She wished, above all things, he 
 should cet some of that secret medicine I 
 had mentioned (and of the nature of which 
 Augustus had informed her), that would 
 make him dance — a remark she accompa- 
 nied with a side look of great significance 
 to her lover, who rejoined smartly, that 
 
THE FIYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 181 
 
 there mis-lit soon be occasion for the old 
 gentleman using his limbs in that graceful 
 exercise. The buoyancy of the sprightly 
 young lady was checked by a blush which 
 added a supplement to my information. I 
 accompanied the mother to another apart- 
 ment, where I learned from her that the 
 object she had particularly in view, in re- 
 questing my professional assistance for 
 her husband, was his restoration to a bet- 
 ter temper, the change of which she 
 thought depended on a state of the sto- 
 mach, capable in all likelihood of being 
 removed or ameliorated ; but, that restora- 
 tion, she continued, behoved to be quick, 
 for a marriage had for some time been 
 fixed between her daughter and the young 
 man I had seen, and she had some fears 
 that, in his present gloomy state of mind, 
 he would be unwillins; to sio-n the contract 
 whereby, as he had already agreed, ten 
 thousand pounds was to be given as a dow- 
 ry. I heard the old lady out, and then 
 endeavored to ascertain, by oblique ques- 
 tions, whether she was aware of the extra- 
 ordinary state of mind and feelings into 
 which her husband had fallen, and, above 
 all, whether she had heard any unfavorable 
 accounts of the Mermaid, or of his finances 
 generally. Her answers and manner indi- 
 cated no knowledge of any misfortune, nor 
 indeed of any fear of misfortune, enter- 
 tained by her husband. All she knew was, 
 that he had got into a gloomy and ill-na- 
 tured condition of mind, which she said 
 was entirely unjustified by any change in 
 his worldly condition. By the Mermaid, 
 she added, a powerful vessel, which he had 
 (from his usual narrow spirit) trusted to 
 the sea without insurance, he was almost 
 certain to realize a very large addition to 
 his fortune. 1 was surprised at these state- 
 ments; but considered it prudent, in the 
 meantime, to make no disclosure which 
 might tend to alarm the family, who, in 
 consequence of the approach of the daugh- 
 ter's marriage, were clearly all in a state of 
 confidence and happiness, qualified very 
 
 slightly by a supposed fit of the spleen in 
 the father, which would leave him before 
 the important day of the union. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, I satis- 
 fied myself, by inquiries among merchants, 
 and without raising any suspicions, that no 
 unfavorable accounts had been received of 
 the Mermaid, which had touched at Ma- 
 deira, where she had been heard of on her 
 
 passage out to Jamaica. Mr. H 's 
 
 credit was everywhere reckoned unexcep- 
 tionable, though his close-handedness and 
 firmness in bargain-making were not so 
 generally admired. I was now satisfied 
 my patient was a true victim of the real 
 malady of hypochondriacism ; and that, 
 by brooding over the misfortunes of George 
 
 B and the danger he ran from not 
 
 insuring his valuable vessel, he had con- 
 tracted pseudoblepsis imaginaria, or an 
 imaginary vision of objects, which often 
 attends the orio;inal disease, as one of its 
 very worst characteristics. I called again 
 upon him next day about the same hour, 
 and found him in the same position he oc- 
 cupied the day before, sitting in the dark 
 room, and looking; into the heart of the 
 fire, as if the object of his morbid vision 
 were to be found there. He did not hear 
 the opening of the door ; but the sound 
 of my voice produced a start, and a sud- 
 den, timid, oblique cast of the eye, which 
 satisfied me he was still under the same 
 melancholy delusion. 
 
 " Have you seen George B to-day .^" 
 
 he said, hurriedly, and, as if afraid to hear 
 the answer he requested. " Poor man ! 
 poor man ! — I saw him from that window 
 an hour ao-o. How little does he know 
 
 O 
 
 that I am so near his awful condition !'' 
 
 It was impossible he could have seen 
 the dreaded victim of the fate he himself 
 anticipated, from that window : it was a 
 mere mirage of monomania. 
 
 "I have not seen him," answered I; 
 " but I have ascertained that your vessel 
 the Mermaid was noted at Madeira, and 
 no one has heard unfavorable accounts of 
 
182 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 her ; so she mubt be presumed to be safe. 
 You have allowed a fancy to master your 
 perception of truth." 
 
 "The old medicine again I" he ex- 
 claimed, with a sarcastic grin and tone, 
 evidently excruciating to himself. " So 
 did I act the leech to my poor friend, 
 when, with Lloyd's List in my hand, I 
 told him that the Amphitrite was not lost. 
 So do we all endeavor to cheat the un- 
 fortunate." 
 
 " Well," replied I, " show me Lloyd's 
 List for the loss of the Mermaid, and I 
 will renounce my scepticism." 
 
 " We are not generally anxious," re- 
 plied he, " to convince people of the truth 
 and reality of a misfortune that must 
 bring us to beggary. It is enough that I 
 read that dreadful paragraph myself. I 
 could not stand a reperusal of it. I threw 
 the fatal paper from me ; but the words, 
 the words to a letter, are marked as by a 
 burning iron on my brain. I trace them 
 everywhere : on that wall, in that fire, in 
 the air, I see them ; and, God ! they 
 need no Daniel to construe the doom of 
 my ruin — my condemnation to that state 
 
 in which I may, with poor George B , 
 
 weep over a divided crust, begged from 
 the reluctant hand of charity!" 
 
 " Would you have any objections to let 
 me peruse the paragraph V said L 
 
 " What need, what need," he cried, 
 emphatically, " of a paltry array of the 
 impressions of types, where the brain is 
 burned by the flaming characters .-* I know 
 nothing of the dreadful memorial. I 
 threw it from me in despair. Cease this 
 silly scepticism, resorted to to show an 
 affected hypercritical examination of evi- 
 dence. See you that book .?" — (laying 
 his hand on a Bible that lay on the table, 
 and speaking slow and solemnly) — " do 
 you doubt holy writ ?" 
 
 As he pronounced these words empha- 
 tically, he threw on me a look of the tri- 
 umph of despair over the effort to pierce 
 the darkness of his mind by the last strug- 
 gling beam of hope. Having appealed to 
 
 the Bible as an analogous example of the 
 certainty of the probation of the loss of 
 the Mermaid, he could go no further, and 
 fell back on his chair, with his face again 
 covered by his palsied hands ; but I re- 
 tained my hopes of still shaking him, by 
 forcing him to descend to the particulars 
 of the disaster. 
 
 " When and where was the Mermaid 
 lost?" said L 
 
 This question, which begged particu- 
 lars, and assumed the loss, curdled his 
 blood — he shuddered all over ; but, 
 though his courage was at fault, his fancy 
 was prepared : — 
 
 " On the banks of Newfoundland," he 
 replied, " on the stormy night of the 15th 
 of November ; she was driven so far north 
 by stress of weather. Thus has perished 
 the greater part of my fortune. Other 
 small disasters complete my ruin" — start- 
 ing up suddenly and looking wildly around. 
 "But, sir, you must mention this to no 
 one, not even to my wife — an execution 
 in my house to-morrow would be the re- 
 sult of the discovery. She cannot stand 
 it ; and I must not kill her yet ; though 
 death will, I hope, ultimately relieve her 
 from the necessity of begging with me by 
 the way-side.. Promise, promise, on this 
 holy book, that you will not divulge my 
 secret !" 
 
 I hesitated thus to confirm his disease. 
 
 " Do you refuse me this simple re- 
 quest .^" he continued, falling on his knees 
 and seizing my legs, while his wild, de- 
 spair-stricken eye sought, with piteous 
 look, my face. " Is it thus you repay my 
 confidence } The confessions of a pa- 
 tient are sacred : shall mine be made an 
 exception ^ Then, may the Lord have 
 mercy on me and mine ! — for we are all 
 undone — my tender, doating wife — my 
 Ano-elina on the eve of marriao;e — all hurl- 
 ed in one instant from the height of afflu- 
 ence to ruin." 
 
 " I will divulge nothing," said T, rais- 
 ing his weak and emaciated body as I 
 would have done that of a child ; " but if 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 183 
 
 the disaster is in Lloyd's, my secrecy can 
 be of small importance." 
 
 " True, true," he replied, as he again 
 sank on his chair — " I forgot. Nothing 
 can now save me. It must be all over 
 the town. What do the people say of it ? 
 
 Do ihejpity me as I pity George B ? 
 
 Ha ! — then — then am I indeed to be pitied, 
 for being pitied ! How often, cruel pow- 
 ers ! have I prayed thee to avert from me 
 that wretched boon, as the last, the great- 
 est of all worldly evils !" 
 
 My influence over the convulsive throes 
 that followed these words was nothing. 
 The only relief lay in the exhaustion of 
 nature's diseased strens-th. With an or- 
 dinary victim of real evil, many expedi- 
 ents may be fallen upon to introduce 
 glimpses of consolation through crevices 
 of the mind ; but it is a peculiar feature 
 of hypochondria that the imagined object 
 of terror engrosses in its power all the 
 mental forces — judgment, imagination, 
 and feeling — leaving no faculty through 
 which a medicinal virtue can be commu- 
 nicated to the diseased and burning brain. 
 Aware, as my professional knowledge 
 made me, of the invincible nature of the 
 false belief engendered by this disease, I 
 resolved upon not persisting in an attempt, 
 by mere argument, to force it to give 
 place to a truer conviction. Through the 
 physical powers, an impression, in the first 
 instance, could, with the greatest chance 
 of success, be made on the diseased mind ; 
 and when the unfortunate man recovered 
 from his fit, I endeavored to convince him 
 that he was unwell in body and required 
 medicine. He scarcely deigned to reply 
 to me on a subject so far beneath his at- 
 tention, engrossed as it was with an evil 
 of so gigantic a kind ; and solemnly and 
 sarcastically required me to send him a 
 dose of arsenic. I laid on the table what 
 I thought would benefit him, along with 
 the necessary directions, and left him still 
 groaning under the agony of his imagined 
 infliction. 
 
 In the passage, I met the gay and hila- 
 
 my 
 
 rious Angelina, who again inquired, laugh- 
 ing, when her father would be in a condi- 
 tion to dance — unaware of my private 
 knowledge of what gave a humor to this 
 turn of her natural vivacity. A servant, 
 in the meantime, whispered that Mrs. 
 
 H waited for me in an adjoining room. 
 
 I hastened to her, and, to my surprise, 
 found her extended on a couch, bathed in 
 tears, and apparently under the infliction 
 of some intense sorrow, 
 
 " Oh, why have you concealed this dis- 
 aster from me .?" she cried, as I advanced. 
 
 " What disaster, madam .?" said I. 
 
 "The loss of the Mermaid," replied 
 she, crying and sobbing bitterly. 
 
 " Is it true, then .?" said I, starting with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Who should know better than 
 husband.?" said she. 
 
 I was instantly relieved by her answer. 
 On inquiry, I found that the servant had 
 overheard a part of the conversation be- 
 tween me and Mr. H , and commu- 
 nicated it to her mistress. I explained 
 everything to her, and she was satisfied 
 on this great subject of alarm ; but she 
 had still a difficulty to struggle with. The 
 marriage of her daughter drew near, and 
 how would her husband be got prevailed 
 upon to fulfil his obligation to pay the 
 dowry of ten thousand pounds, if he con- 
 tinued under the dark cloud of mental 
 delusion whose inspissated gloom stran- 
 gled the very rays of the instinctive per- 
 ception of primary and elemental truths ? 
 I acknowledged that there was great diffi- 
 culty in the case, and suggested that the 
 marriage might take place in the mean- 
 time, and the obligation for the tocher left 
 to be got signed afterwards, when the 
 Mermaid came home. This plan did not, 
 however, please ; and I suspected, though 
 she had too much delicacy to admit it, 
 that the obligation for the cash was held 
 a kind of sine qua non by the bridegroom. 
 I, therefore, promised to consider serious- 
 ly of some means of relieving her from 
 the extraordinary position in which she 
 
184 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 and her family were placed ; and, in the 
 meantime, recommended to her'to use her 
 own exertions in getting her husband to 
 take the medicines I had ordered ; leav- 
 ing- to her own discretion, to break to him 
 the subject of his terrors, or keep it, in 
 the meantime, within her own bosom, as 
 she conceived most prudent ; but enjoin- 
 ing, in any view, to preserve inviolate my 
 honor with the invalid, over whom my 
 power could be only co-extensive with the 
 faith he reposed in me. 
 
 Next day I had another communing 
 
 with Mrs. H , who informed me that, 
 
 on the previous night, she had witnessed 
 the most dreadful scene she had ever ex- 
 perienced during her life. Mr. H , 
 
 unable longer to restrain himself, had, 
 with tears of lamentation, told her she 
 must prepare herself for becoming a beg- 
 gar ; that the Mermaid was lost, and his 
 brother William, for whom he had become 
 surety to the extent of fifteen thousand 
 pounds, had suddenly failed, whereby he 
 would have that money to pay. Her efforts 
 to undeceive him had produced an absolute 
 phrcnzy ; he tore the bandages from his 
 temples, uttered loud screams of agony, 
 sank suddenly into fits of gloomy silence, 
 then passed into paroxysms of weeping, and 
 fell on her neck, sobbing like a child. His 
 condition since had only been a continua- 
 tion of this misery. She did not know what 
 to do ; because, if she were to promulgate 
 his condition, with a view to getting friends 
 and acquaintances to come and endeavor 
 to undeceive him, she might injure his 
 mercantile interests and credit, and pro- 
 duce that very ruin he so much dreaded. 
 In the meantime, the day of the marriage 
 approached apace ; and she now candidly 
 confessed that, if there was any demur 
 about advancing the tocher, the bride- 
 groom might refuse to perform his part 
 of the engagement, whereby her fragile 
 daughter might lose her life, and at all 
 events her happiness for ever. I told her 
 I had not yet come to any satisfactory 
 conclusion ; but recommended to her to 
 
 send to all the friends of the seamen on 
 board the Mermaid, to ascertain if any 
 letters had come to them, and, if possible, 
 to get hold of them. 
 
 In the evening, a message came to me 
 
 from Mrs. H , informing me that she 
 
 had ascertained that no letters had yet ar- 
 rived from any of the seamen of the Mer- 
 maid. I revolved all the peculiarities and 
 difficulties of this extraordinary case in 
 my mind during the night, and bethought 
 myself of the excusable expedient of re- 
 moving the fatal deception of the patient 
 by a humane, an innocent imposition — to 
 destroy falsehood by falsehood, and there- 
 by elicit truth. My plan was to get re- 
 printed a metropolitan newspaper, con- 
 taining a superinduced entry, as if from 
 Lloyd's, of the arrival of the Mermaid at 
 her place of destination, and to lay this 
 paper within the reach of the deluded in- 
 valid. I communicated this plan to Mrs. 
 
 H , who approved of it ; and, on the 
 
 same day, gave instructions to a printer, 
 in whom I could repose confidence, to put 
 his part of the scheme into execution. He 
 entered cordially into the device, and, 
 next forenoon, sent me a proof of the pa- 
 per and the fictitious entry, which I im- 
 mediately revised and returned to him, with 
 directions to send me the perfect copy in 
 the evening. About seven o'clock, ac- 
 cordingly, a young man brought me a 
 paper, stating that his master had been 
 oblicced to leave town in the afternoon ; 
 but that I might rely upon the accuracy 
 of the copy, which had been carefully 
 thrown off by his foreman. I immediately 
 
 carried it to Mrs. H , who undertook 
 
 to lay it in such a position as would se- 
 cure the eye of her husband. The mat- 
 rimonial contract, she said, required to be 
 signed on the 16th, two days after, ac- 
 cording to the agreement of the parties ; 
 and, owins: to the state of her husband, 
 she had resolved upon the marriage being 
 celebrated afterwards privately. She be- 
 seeched me strongly to attend and witness 
 the contract, whereby I might have an 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 185 
 
 opportunity of facilitating the completion 
 of this most delicate and dangerous nego- 
 tiation. 
 
 On the day and hour appointed, I at- 
 tended accordingly. The scene presented 
 to me, as I entered the sick man's cham- 
 ber, was extraordinary and striking. The 
 window shutters were still half closed, 
 and the room nearly dark. Augustus 
 A and Angelina were sitting oppo- 
 site to each other at the aperture of the 
 window ; their faces, on which the light 
 shone by the side of deep shadows, exhi- 
 biting that mixture of love, joy, fear, and 
 solicitude, which the peculiar circum- 
 stances of their situation could not fail to 
 produce in hearts whose sympathies were 
 moved by- the elastic springs of an affec- 
 tion which had not been crossed, and 
 hopes that never had been blighted. The 
 mother sat silently looking at her husband, 
 who, rolled up in the manner already de- 
 scribed, sat immerged in a mood of gloomy 
 despair, his head leaning on his breast, 
 his eyebrows knit, his eyes fixed on the 
 fire, his mouth sealed with a sullen, ob- 
 stinate silence, and everything indicating 
 either that he was unconscious of what 
 was to be enacted in his presence, or de- 
 termined not to take a friendly part in it. 
 I seated myself opposite to him, and was 
 saluted by a half scowling, half timid 
 look, which, having scanned me hurriedly, 
 souo'ht ao-ain the fire. The meetins; of 
 friends collected to witness a coffin-liftino; 
 of a dear relative, could not have pre- 
 sented a more funereal, gloomy, and dis- 
 mal aspect — the shadows being relieved, 
 in the one case, by the lurid smile of ex- 
 pectant heirs, and in the other, by the 
 struggling gleam of the doubtful joy of 
 the bride2:room and bride. At leno-th, the 
 man of the law came with the important 
 document ; and, having his bustling, offi- 
 cious importance and familiarity blasted 
 by the sullen growl of the hypochondriac, 
 sat down in disappointment and irresolu- 
 tion. After words of ceremony, ap- 
 proaching to the sombreness of the pre- 
 
 liminaries of a service over the dead, the 
 deed was read, purporting, in the usual 
 terms, that the two parties had agreed to 
 accept of each other for lawful spouses, 
 and that, in consideration of a jointure of 
 five hundred pounds a-year, the father of 
 the bride had agreed to advance the sum 
 of ten thousand pounds as the tocher of 
 his daughter. When the deed was read, 
 all was silent. The bridegioom adhibited 
 his name first, and the bride, suffused with 
 blushes and " smiling inwardly," followed 
 his example. It was now placed before 
 the father, and the lawyer held out to him 
 the pen, fraught, after a dipping and a 
 redipping, with the nicely adjusted quota 
 of ink, for the purpose of his signing his 
 name. 
 
 . The company sat for a few minutes si- 
 lently looking at the attitude of the man 
 of the law, who still held out the pen to 
 the invalid. A loud, horrible, fiendish 
 cackle of a laugh wrung spasmodically 
 from the dry throat of the hypochondriac, 
 rang through the apartment, and filled 
 every face with consternation and terror. 
 I do not recollect of ever havins; heard a 
 sound so unearthly, so much beyond all 
 powers of description — a noise so com- 
 pounded of all the elements of discord- 
 ancy. It seemed the accumulated ex- 
 pression of all his griefs, terrors, and mi- 
 sery. Thrusting his hand, with a flutter- 
 ing, trembling precipitude, into the pocket 
 of his gown, he dragged forth the news- 
 paper containing the fictitious announce- 
 ment of the arrival of the Mermaid, and 
 waved it triumphantly over his head. 
 
 "It is not enough," he cried, still 
 throwing the paper backwards and for- 
 wards like a pendant, "that a poor 
 wretch, doomed to beggary and starvation, 
 should have this fate to stru^o-le with, un- 
 aided by the co-operation or soothed by 
 the sympathy of relatives and friends ! 
 No ! there must be added — by the agency 
 of the Devil, acting through the cruel re- 
 finements of a wife's treachery, a doctor's 
 cunnino;, and a daufjhter's selfishness — the 
 
186 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 injury and insult of a degrading decep- 
 tion — an imposition, a cheat. Though 
 reduced to beggary, 1 am not yet, thank 
 God ! deserted by my perception of truth, 
 and my love of honesty and fair dealing. 
 ^ The Mermaid has arrived^' " (looking at 
 the paper, and repeating his screech 
 laugh) ^^ '■ safe — all well!^ And who 
 tells us this glorious news ? No other 
 
 than Mr. Gilbert S ■, Printer in 
 
 Street of our own town of 
 
 -, whose 
 name is placed here " (pointing to the 
 print) " to this London paper, as a gua- 
 rantee, a pledge of the truth of his infor- 
 mation. Excellent cheat ! Noble device ! 
 Ingenious trickery ! How worthy of the 
 juo-ij:lers, and the poor, wretched, misera- 
 ble beggar attempted to be juggled !" 
 
 I seized the paper, which, as he fell 
 back screaming out his hysterical laugh, 
 he threw from him. Heavens ! what was 
 my surprise to find it indeed true that Mr. 
 S — — 's foreman, to whom the secret had 
 not been communicated, had, in his mas- 
 ter's absence, placed according to the 
 custom of printers in ordinary matters, his 
 master's name at the foot of the London 
 newspaper ! I had ruined the whole pro- 
 ceedings ; all the consequences of this 
 broken off marriage were on my head. I 
 had even riveted in this poor man's mind 
 the certainty of the loss of the Mermaid ; 
 shame, regret, and self-crimination stung 
 me like adders ; and such was the inten- 
 sity of my sufi'ering, and the darkness, 
 doubt, and confusion of mind into which I 
 was thrown, that I was scarcely conscious 
 of the extraordinary scene still acting 
 around me. I was called to a more atten- 
 tive observation by the question of the 
 
 man of the law, addressed to Mr. H , 
 
 whether he intended to sign the document, 
 as an engagement called him away. 
 
 " No !" resounded in my still confused 
 ears — " why should a poor beggar, not 
 worth one penny in the world, sign a bond 
 for ten thousand pounds ^ By and by, I 
 will be grateful for a penny to buy me a 
 crust of bread." 
 
 The thunderstruck writer, to whom an 
 
 account was due by Mr. H , recoiled 
 
 at a statement so extraordinary ; the bride- 
 groom, unjustifiably- afraid that some im- 
 proper use might be made of his signature, 
 darted forward, seized the mariiage con- 
 tract, and, hurrying out of the door, flew 
 from a beggared bride. My ears were 
 now stung by the screams of the two 
 women, the mother and the daughter, who 
 both fainted on the floor, and the occasion- 
 al bursts of the hypochondriac's sardonic 
 laugh mixing with the wails of distress of 
 the wretched females. Alarmed by the 
 noise, the servants of the house rushed 
 into the room, to administer assistance to 
 those whose cries seemed so urgently to 
 demand it ; and I contributed my endea- 
 vors to the restoration of the sufierers. 
 The mother recovered in a short time, and 
 soon saw the full extent of the misery 
 that surrounded her ; but, being a strong- 
 minded woman, she defied a repetition of 
 the syncope — an efibrt in which the fragile 
 and volatile daughter was not so success- 
 ful ; for she no sooner revived from one 
 swoon than she fell, screaming, into 
 another ; sent back, by the dreadful con- 
 sciousness of her condition, into this state 
 of heaven-sent, humane oblivion of misery. 
 While tending these sufferers, I threw a 
 glance occasionally at him who suff"ered, 
 from the mere power of a deluded imagi- 
 nation, a thousand times more than those 
 whose tender constitution of body limited 
 the infliction of agony — him who could not 
 faint and could not weep, but who could 
 yet laugh that dreadful laugh of the 
 miserable, which no man can forget who 
 once hears it as I have heard it, but cannot 
 describe it. His head was now swung 
 over the side of the chair, as if he had 
 lost all power of upholding it ; his bosom 
 heaved with convulsive throes ; his arms 
 sawed the air ; his feet shuflSied along the 
 floor, and groans, mixed with that horrid 
 spasmodic cackle, burst from him, piercing 
 the ear like the yells of a demon. Having 
 consigned the women to the care of the 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 187 
 
 servants, I left hurriedly this scene, the 
 moral cause of which I could be of no ser- 
 vice in endeavoring to relieve. However 
 familiar I had become with scenes of dis- 
 tress, the new and peculiar features of the 
 one I have here attempted to describe, 
 scared away the apathy of custom and 
 habit, and seized my feelings and interest 
 more powerfully and painfully than I can 
 be able to express by the narrative I have 
 here given. 
 
 Next forenoon, I called on Mrs. H , 
 
 and found her imder great affliction. 
 She told me that her daughter was con- 
 fined to bed, and that her swooning fits 
 returned upon her whenever her mind 
 acquired power and sensibility sufficient to 
 estimate the true extent of her sufierino;, 
 for she could not be made to believe that 
 the loss of the Mermaid and the poverty 
 and beggary of her father was a dream of 
 hypochondria ; and treated the attempt of 
 her mother to produce this belief as a 
 mere act of maternal sympathy, to conceal 
 from her her deplorable fate in losing a 
 lover 
 
 , and the means of living, at the same 
 time. She informed me also that she had 
 
 seen Augustus A. , who was as obstinate 
 
 as her dauo;hter in his belief that what her 
 husband had said was true, giving as his 
 reason that he had never heard that Mr. 
 
 H was mad ; and proceeding so far 
 
 as to accuse her and myself of an attempt, 
 by the falsified newspaper, to get matters 
 so arranged as to inveigle him into a 
 match with the daughter of one on the eve 
 of becoming a bankrupt. I replied, that 
 I now saw no alternative, in our efforts to 
 cure those ingeniously contrived disasters, 
 other than waiting for the captain of the 
 Mermaid's letter of advice, which could 
 not fail to arrive in a very short time. I 
 had scarcely uttered these words, when 
 
 Mr. H 's clerk handed in a letter 
 
 from Kingston. We were surprised and 
 pleased at this curious coincidence ; and I 
 
 agreed to remain until Mrs. H took 
 
 up to her husband this piece of evidence, 
 which could not fail to open his eyes, and 
 
 cure all the evils that had resulted from 
 his delusion. In a short time after Mrs. 
 
 H- 
 
 left the room, I heard the well- 
 
 known sound of the expression of an ex- 
 acerbation of the hypochondriac's suffer- 
 ings, mixed, as I thought, with a repeti- 
 tion of the same spasmodic laugh ; and I 
 was now surprised by the appearance of 
 
 Mrs. H , bathed in tears, and holdino- 
 
 in her hand the fragments of the letter 
 which had been torn to pieces. She 
 
 informed me that Mr. H had read 
 
 the letter, and had cried out, immediately 
 on perusing it, that it was not written in 
 the captain's hand ; that it was another 
 attempt to impose upon him ; and that 
 we deserved to be handed over to the 
 authorities for forging the postmark. On 
 putting the pieces of the letter together, 
 we perceived that it was signed by the 
 captain ; but, in consequence of his having 
 got his hand hurt, written by some other 
 person — yet undoubtedly a genuine docu- 
 ment, communicating the safe arrival of 
 the Mermaid at the port of Kingston. It 
 was now, we both agreed, necessary to 
 wait the arrival of the vessel itself. 
 
 In the meantime, I continued my visits, 
 
 communicating through Mrs. H with 
 
 the patient, who, conceiving me to be in 
 the plot against him, would not consent to 
 see me. His body was undergoing a 
 gradual decay, from the effects of the 
 moral poison continually instilled into the 
 nerves of the brain, the centre of the living 
 powers of the system, as well as the seat 
 of the mind ; while his liver, getting en- 
 larged, generated the food of the mental 
 disease, which in its turn, preyed on his 
 flesh — producing a marasmus assimilatino* 
 him to a living skeleton. The darkness 
 of the room he occupied was gradually 
 increased, so as to suit his tender vision, 
 which shrunk at the light of day ; and it 
 was subsequently necessary to muffle the 
 bell of the door, to prevent its sound from 
 throwing him into a fit of hysterics, in the 
 apprehension of messengers, tipstaffs, and 
 sheriff-officers, who he said, were haunting 
 
188 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the house, ready to pounce upon him the 
 instant they got a glimpse of his person. 
 He was evidently fast falling into a gene- 
 ral cachexia or depraved habit of body, 
 which would eventually defy all the restora- 
 tive powers of medicine, as well as the 
 influence of a renewed belief, even if such 
 could be stimulated in his brain by a 
 natural perception of external evidence. 
 His daughter, too, was still confined to bed 
 by a slow fever, resulting from the fearful 
 excitement she had suffered on the day of 
 the signing of the contract. 
 
 While matters were in this desperate 
 condition, the Mermaid arrived with a 
 rich cargo from Jamaica. I saw the Cap- 
 tain previous to his first interview with 
 his owner, gave him directions how to 
 conduct himself, and requested him to call 
 and communicate to me the result of the 
 meeting. In a few hours afterwards, he 
 came running to me in great haste, and 
 informed me that Mr. H was assured- 
 ly mad ; that he had gazed at him as if he 
 had been an apparition — requesting to 
 know how he had saved himself from the 
 wreck of the Mermaid, and whether any 
 of the crew were saved ; but prohibiting 
 him, by dreadful oaths, from recapitulat- 
 ino" the circumstances of the loss, which, 
 he said, he could not hear from the lips 
 of an eye-witness, and live an hour after. 
 When the Captain replied that the Mer- 
 maid was in the harbor, he rose in great 
 fury, cried that the narrator was leagued 
 with his other enemies, who wanted to 
 impose on him, and threatened to strike , 
 him if he did not instantly leave the room. 
 After what I had witnessed, I was not sur- 
 prised even at this. There was only one 
 expedient now remaining — to carry him 
 by force, ill as he was, on board of the 
 ship, and present to his eyes the corpus 
 reale of the Mermaid herself. 
 
 This was done the very next day. The 
 patient was by far too weak to offer any 
 resistance. He was told that he was or- 
 dered by the doctor to take an airing. 
 Two men lifted him down stairs, and 
 
 placed him in a sedan chair, for the great- 
 er facility of transporting him on board. 
 I was waiting him on the deck, along with 
 Mrs. H , the Captain, and two con- 
 fidential friends, while the crew were 
 directed to be working about, so as to add 
 the weight of the testimony of their living 
 bodies to the evidence of the wood, ropes, 
 and sails of the vessel. The sedan chair 
 was placed in the middle of the deck ; 
 and we stood around to witness the effects 
 of the apparition of the lost Mermaid, on 
 the diseased mind of the patient. When 
 the head of the chair was lifted off and the 
 door opened, the spectacle presented to 
 our view was most appalling, transcending 
 even the fancy of a resurrection from the 
 dead. His skin was of the color of an 
 orange, and seemed to envelope a heap of 
 bones, bound together by gristles — no mus- 
 cular amplification in any part visible ; his 
 jaws, and the thin tendinous muscles in- 
 tended to cover and move them, were as 
 rigid as if they had been frozen by a hy- 
 perborean winter ; a thick shock of black 
 hair, that had not been cut for a long 
 period, hung down over his yellow fore- 
 head, and partly concealed his eyes • the 
 nails upon his fingers, which he would not 
 allow mortal to touch, had grown long and 
 sharp, resembling more the talons of an 
 eagle than the appurtenances of men's 
 hands : — everything indicated the diseased, 
 immured troglodite, or cave-man, brought 
 out to see, before he died, the rays of the 
 mid-day sun. As the light, to which he 
 had been so long unaccustomed, struck his 
 eyes, he winced and groaned, turning the 
 yellow orbs backwards and forwards, shut- 
 ting his eyelids, opening them again, like 
 one awakening from a long sleep, and rub- 
 bing them with his fingers, as if to ease 
 his pain, and, at the same time, to remove 
 a supposed mirage which tormented him 
 by its delusion. Beginning to wonder at 
 the strano;e sights exhibited to him — the 
 change from his own apartment to a ship's- 
 deck, from darkness to light, and from 
 loneliness to society, with the cries of the 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 18? 
 
 seamen's " yo-he-vo," the dashing of the 
 waves against the sides of the vessel, and 
 the motion of the pitching bark, which was 
 in an exposed part of the outer harbor — 
 he rose from his seat, and looked wildly 
 over the top of the sedan, eyeing us, along 
 with the passing seamen — whose faces he 
 scanned curiously — with the greatest 
 amazement, not unmixed with terror, and 
 struggling, apparently, to force some satis- 
 factory conclusion out of a comparison of 
 riveted beliefs and perplexing appearances. 
 No one spoke to him, all being deeply 
 occupied in watching the strange symp- 
 toms of the first returning ray of reason 
 and belief, on a mind so long clouded and 
 deranged by gloomy delusions and vision- 
 ary imaginations. He continued to scan 
 everything with the most minute attention 
 — shuddering at intervals, as if he saw an 
 apparition — casting on us looks of suspi- 
 cion, and then brightening up with gleams 
 of reviving confidence. At last, his eye 
 was firmly riveted on some object in the 
 direction of the mainmast — his gaze be- 
 coming so steadfast and keen that his very 
 soul seemed to be centred in it. We all 
 turned our eyes in the same direction ; 
 but I saw nothing calculated to produce so 
 much excitement. In an instant, a loud 
 scream rent the air — the hypochondriac 
 rushed forward with the last collected 
 strength of his attenuated frame, and, 
 clasping his arms round the main-mast, at 
 a place where his name was painted in the 
 semicircle of the indispensable horse-shoe, 
 hugged it till his nerves seemed to crack, 
 and, drawing a deep sigh, fell down on the 
 deck, I thought the experiment was fatal 
 — that the clouded mind had been unable 
 to bear the coup de soleil of truth — that 
 he was dead ! 
 
 I ran forward and lifted him up. In a 
 short time he recovered, and looked around 
 him wildly ; but he had received his speci- 
 fic — even the scepticism of his disease had 
 begun to give way to touch. When he 
 was lifted up, he took my arm, and walked 
 
 round and round the vessel, looking at 
 everything, touching everything ; and, as 
 the evidence grew stronger and stronger, 
 bursting out into strange hollow laughs. 
 No one yet interfered to give any explan- 
 ation ; for I deemed it better to let the 
 real evidence work its eff"ect in the first 
 instance, before any moral confirmation 
 was ofiered. The process was slow ; the 
 shadows of scepticism seemed to hang 
 about his mind, and contest every inch of 
 the mental province with the beams of the 
 searchincr lio;ht of the evidence of sense. 
 Yet he became gradually stronger and 
 stronger in his belief; and, before we left 
 the vessel, was as much satisfied of the 
 safety and identity of the Mermaid, as he 
 was formerly of her loss and his own ruin. 
 He was taken home, and the effects of the 
 new conviction became soon apparent, 
 producing a reaction of confidence, and 
 brightening up his mind with the cheer- 
 ing rays of hope. A healthy mind is the 
 best medicine for a diseased body — he be- 
 came gradually better and better, and 
 latterly entirely recovered. 
 
 When he became quite well, I used 
 often to talk with him about the state of 
 his mind during that dark period. He 
 felt no disinclination to speak of it. He 
 said that the most remarkable circum- 
 stance was, that all his fancies were inves- 
 ted with that same conviction of truth 
 which generally accompanies the evidence 
 of the five senses. One good effect, he 
 said, followed from the hallucination ; and 
 that was, that his blindness enabled him 
 to see through the heart of his intended 
 son-in-law ; for he was satisfied that no- 
 thing but his declaration of poverty would 
 have elicited the unworthy motives of 
 
 Auo-ustus A . He succeeded in satis- 
 
 fying his daughter that her^ lover was un- 
 worthy of her ; and, some years afterwards, 
 another and more worthy suitor having 
 souo-ht her hand, succeeded, and a dowry 
 of i£ 10,000 was paid down on the mar- 
 riage day. 
 
100 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE PROFLIGATE. 
 
 On the estate of Mr. Dreghorn of Long- 
 trees, in the west country, there lived, 
 some twenty years ago, a farmer of the 
 name of Blair. The portion of Mr. 
 Dreghorn's estate, however, which James 
 Blair rented, was but a small one ; for, 
 although a man of great respectability 
 and integrity of character, he was poor, 
 and had much difficulty in keeping him- 
 self square with the world. This, how- 
 ever, by dint of rigid economy and ceas- 
 less toil, he effected. 
 
 The family of James Blair consisted of 
 his wife, a son, named after himself, and 
 a dau2;hter who was called Elizabeth. 
 
 The younger Blair, who was, at the pe- 
 riod of our story, about twenty years of 
 age, was a lad of excellent character and 
 amiable dispositions. He was, withal,' a 
 remarkably handsome young man, and 
 was thus a general favorite in that part of 
 the country where he resided. 
 
 Elizabeth, again, was the counterpart 
 of her brother, in both disposition and 
 personal appearance, making allowance, 
 as regarded the latter, for the difference 
 of sex. She was, in truth, a lovely girl ; 
 and of many a sad heart and sleepless 
 night was she the unconscious cause, 
 amongst the young men of the district in 
 which she lived. 
 
 James Blair's home, therefore, though 
 a humble, was a happy one. He doated 
 on his children ; and they, in return, 
 loved him with the most devoted tender- 
 ness and affection. 
 
 Up to this period, nothing had occur- 
 red to disturb, for a moment, the peace 
 and quiet of this happy family. But, un- 
 deserved as it may appear, the hour of 
 trouble was approaching ; it was at hand. 
 
 Mr. Dreghorn, the proprietor of James 
 Blair's farm, had a son an only one we 
 
 believe, named Henry, at this time about 
 four-and-twenty years of age. He was a 
 remarkably fine-looking young man, and 
 of engaging manners, but, in reality, a 
 heartless debauchee ; one whom no moral 
 restraints could bind ; and whom no con- 
 siderations, however strongly they might 
 appeal to the sense of honor, could induce 
 to forego the gratification of his selfish 
 and vicious passions. 
 
 Such was Henry Dreghorn, and such 
 was the man who was destined to carry 
 misery and wretchedness into the once 
 happy home of James Blair. 
 
 Young Dreghorn saw, and (we cannot 
 say loved, for he was too great a sensual- 
 ist to entertain so pure and holy a passion) 
 coveted the fair form of Eliza Blair. 
 
 On this part of our story, however, wc 
 need not dwell. Suffice it to say, that the 
 arch deceiver plied his most winning "wiles, 
 and plied them successfully ; he triumph- 
 ed, and his victim fell. 
 
 On the disgrace of the poor confiding 
 girl becoming known to her family, dread- 
 ful was its effect. Her mother shrieked 
 out, in the agony of her soul, and refused 
 to be comforted. Her father, with more 
 strength of mind, suppressed his grief; 
 but he too shed the secret tear, and beat 
 his forehead in the wildness of bis despair, 
 as he brooded over the ruin of his hopes 
 — the ruin of his child. 
 
 But it was on her brother that the blow, 
 perhaps, fell, after all, with the most 
 witherins; effect. With a less matured 
 judgment, and with less experience of the 
 world than his elders, his feelings were 
 more poignant, and less under the control 
 of reason. To him all appeared dark and 
 dismal, without one glimmering of light to 
 relieve the dreary waste of his thoughts. 
 To his unfortunate sister herself he said 
 
THE PROFLIGATE. 
 
 191 
 
 nothing — not one upbraiding word escaped 
 his lips ; but his silence was the silence 
 of deep despondency — of a mind oppress- 
 ed and borne down by an overwhelming, 
 although uncomplaining sorrow. 
 
 Young Blair's first impulse, on learning 
 the misfortune of his sister, was to seek 
 out her destroyer, and to take him to ac- 
 count for the dastardly deed ; and for this 
 purpose he actually, watched him, cau- 
 tiously and determinedly, with a loaded 
 pistol. But Dreghorn was not to be 
 found ; he had left the country ; he had 
 gone to London ; and thus, for a time, at 
 any rate, escaped the vengeance of the 
 justly incensed, but rash and ill-judging 
 young man. Thus baulked of his victim, 
 young Blair resumed his usual employ- 
 ment ; but it was only for a short space. 
 The disgrace of his sister so preyed on his 
 mind, that he could not attend to his duties 
 as he formerly did ; neither would he go 
 abroad as he had been wont, but naturally, 
 though erroneously, believing that he also 
 would be considered as sharing the infamy j 
 of "his unhappy relative, avoided all his 
 usual places of resort, and all the compa- 
 nions of his happier hours. 
 
 This, however, was a state of things j 
 that could not lons!; continue ; neither did 
 it ; young Blair, unable longer to struggle 
 a2;ainst the witheringi; feelinoi;s which his 
 continued residence on the scene of his 
 own and his family's disgrace was con- 
 stantly calling into existence, suddenly 
 disappeared, without informing even his 
 parents of his intention, or giving them 
 any idea of what he intended doing. A 
 letter, however, which they received a 
 short time after his departure, solved the 
 mystery. It informed them that he had 
 enlisted ; and gave them, at the same 
 time, the reason for his taking so extraor- 
 dinary a step ; yet, although this reason, 
 as will readily be guessed, bore reference 
 to, and weighed heavily on, the conduct 
 of his unfortunate sister, he concluded by 
 begging for tha4, sister, at the hands of his 
 parents, their forgiveness, and the kindest 
 
 attentions which their own benevolence 
 could suggest, and her unhappy situation 
 could demand. 
 
 Like much greater events, however, the 
 misfortune of the Blair family was only a 
 nine days' wonder. For somewhere about 
 that time, it was the talk of the country ; 
 but it gradually sunk into oblivion, and 
 was soon all but forgotten. The subse- 
 quent disappearance of young Blair, also, 
 created a sensation for a time ; but that 
 too passed away, and merged into the ge- 
 neral mass of things heaped up by revolv- 
 ing years. These, to the number of six 
 or seven, had now sped on their course; 
 and, when they had done so, they found 
 James Blair, with his regiment, in Spain, 
 fighting the battles of that unhappy coun- 
 try, and of all Europe, if we but except 
 France, under the Dake of Wellington. 
 
 The reo-iment to which Blair belonsjed 
 had sufi'ered severely in these sanguinary 
 conflicts ; and he himself had been twice 
 wounded, though not so seriously as to 
 drive him from the field, where he had 
 acquired the reputation of a brave and 
 intrepid soldier. The losses which Blair's 
 regiment sustained falling particularly 
 heavy on the officers, they were replaced 
 from time to time by young aspirants for 
 military fame from England, who sought 
 out and were then ioinino; their regiments, 
 at every resting-point in the route of the 
 army — coming, fresh and untrained, from 
 the bosom of civil society, and the luxu- 
 ries of home, to share in the dangers and 
 j)rivations of a soldier's life. 
 
 Of such was a gentleman, dressed in a 
 blue surtout, with fur neck, and followed 
 by two sumpter-mules loaded with his 
 baggage, who road up to a piquet, or out- 
 guard, of the — th regiment — the regiment 
 to which Blair belonged — on the day pre- 
 ceding the Battle of Vittoria, and inquired 
 for the head-quarters of the corps. James 
 Blair was one of the party to whom the 
 stranger addressed himself ; and there was 
 good reason for the agitation into which the 
 sight of that person threw the astonish- 
 
192 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ed soldier. In that person he recognised, ' 
 although the latter knew not him, the se- 
 ducer of his sister, Henry Dreghorn. He 
 had purchased a commission in the army, 
 and was now come out to join the regi- 
 ment to which he had been appointed — 
 the same, by a curious coincidence, in 
 which the brother of his victim served. 
 On seeing him, Blair became as pale as 
 death, and felt himself suddenly under 
 the influence of a violent but indefinable 
 feeling of excitation, which he made a 
 desperate effort to conceal from his com- 
 rades, lest it might lead to the discovery 
 of the disgrace of his unfortunate sister — 
 a discovery which he dreaded infinitely 
 more than the front of the enemy. 
 
 Blair's first impulse, on this occasion, 
 was to rush on his sister's seducer, and to 
 transfix him to the spot with his bayonet ; 
 but, for the same reason that induced him 
 to conceal his feelings from his comrades — 
 namely, the dread of bringing to light the 
 story of her frailty — he forbore ; but it 
 was with a secret compact with himself, 
 that the hour of vengeance was only de- 
 layed, not passed away. In the meantime, 
 Lieutenant Dreghorn — for such was the 
 rank he held — having obtained the infor- 
 mation he desired, pursued his way, and 
 was soon at the destination he sought. 
 
 We have already alluded to the singu- 
 larity of the circumstance of Dreghorn's 
 being appointed to the same regiment in 
 which Blair served ; but it will appear yet 
 more striking, when we mention that he 
 was appointed not only to the same regi- 
 ment, but the same company to which the 
 
 brother of the victim of his unhallowed 
 passions belonged. This was the case ; 
 and it was a circumstance well calculated 
 to forward that stern and perhaps too se- 
 vere retribution which was about to be 
 meted out to the heartless seducer. 
 
 The mornino; following; the occurrence 
 of the incident just related saw the con- 
 tending armies of Britain and France 
 drawn up in hostile array on the memora- 
 ble field of Vittoria. The bugle sounded 
 its ominous strains ; the drum pealed its 
 notes of alarm ; and the armed hosts 
 closed in deadly strife, shrouded in a 
 canopy of dense and sulphurous smoke^ 
 The — th regimejit was amongst the first 
 engaged. It was thrown, for a moment, 
 into some confusion by the impetuous 
 charge of a column of the enemy. Dur- 
 ing this moment, the combat assumed the 
 character af a melee. The men were de- 
 tached, and fighting single-handed, officers 
 and privates mingled together. At one 
 instant, during the struggle, Lieutenant 
 Dreghorn stood alone, isolated from his 
 companions in arms. In that instant, a 
 bullet passed through his head, and 
 stretched him lifeless on the field. That 
 bullet was from the musket of James 
 Blair. He saw the opportunity, found it 
 irresistible, levelled his piece, fired, and 
 the seducer of his sister fell. The Bat- 
 tle of Vittoria was fought and won, but 
 James Blair was not amonirst the livina; 
 victors. He perished in the conflict, 
 probably not against his own wishes ; and 
 a comrade, who saw the direction of his 
 ^ aim, told the story after the war. 
 
POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
 
 193 
 
 POLWAHTH ON THE GREEN. 
 
 Peradventure there are a few of our 
 readers who have not heard of " Polwarth 
 on the Green," and the " Polwarth 
 Thorn." The sons; bearms; the former 
 title is certainly founded upon one of the 
 most popular traditions on the Borders. 
 Since the commencement of this publica- 
 tion, we have been many times requested 
 to write a tale upon the subject, and not 
 less than thrice from different quarters 
 within the last seven days ; and, as we are 
 at all times anxious to meet the wishes of 
 our readers, we shall now endeavor to fulfil 
 the request which has been made to us. 
 
 There are none to whom the traditions 
 of other days are not interesting. They 
 save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, 
 and the manners of our fathers. No na- 
 tion is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard 
 them ; the civilized European, and the 
 Indian savage, alike cherish them ; and 
 the poets of every land have wed them 
 with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions 
 more general or more interesting than up- 
 on the Borders. Every grey ruin has its 
 tale of wonder and of war. The solitary 
 cairn on the hillside, speaks of one who 
 died for religion, or for liberty, or belike 
 for both. The very schoolboy passes it 
 with reverence, and can tell the history of 
 him whose memory its perpetuates. The 
 hill on which it stands is a monument of 
 daring deeds, where the sword was raised 
 against oppression, and where heroes sleep. 
 Every castle hath its legends, its tales of 
 terror and of blood, " of goblin, ghost, or 
 fairy." The mountain glen, too, hath its 
 records of love and war — there historj^ has 
 let fall its romantic fragments, and the 
 hills enclose them. The forest ■ trees 
 whisper of the past ; and, beneath the 
 shadow of their branches, the silent spirit 
 
 13 
 
 of other years seems to sleep. The an- 
 cient cottage, also, hath its traditions, and 
 recounts 
 
 " The short and simple annals of the poor." 
 
 Every family hath its legends, which re- 
 cord to posterity the actions of their an- 
 cestors, when the sword was law, and even 
 the payment of rent upon the Borders 
 was a thing which no man understood ; 
 but, as Sir Walter Scott saith, " all that 
 the landlord could gain from those resid- 
 ing upon his estate, was their personal 
 service in battle, their assistance in labor- 
 ing the land retained in his natural posses- 
 sion, some petty quit-rents of a nature re- 
 sembling the feudal casualties, and per- 
 haps a share in the spoil which they 
 acquired by rapine." Many of those 
 traditions are calculated to melt the 
 maiden's heart, to fill age with enthusi- 
 asm, and youth with love of country, — 
 But to our story. 
 
 In the year 1470, John Sinclair of 
 Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who was 
 also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, 
 dying without male issue, the estate of 
 Kimmerghame descended to his daughter 
 Marion, and that of Polwarth to her sister 
 Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, 
 Sir William Sinclair, to whom the estate 
 of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William, as 
 the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not 
 appointed as their guardian by their 
 father, for they were both well nigh of 
 woman's estate when he died, craftily took 
 upon himself that duty. He whispered to 
 them that their estates were not managed 
 as they ought to be — that their bondmen 
 did not perform the duty required of them 
 — that those they had set over their 
 grounds as stewards, did not render them 
 
194 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 a faithful account of their stewardship. 
 He insinuated a thousand suspicions into 
 their young minds, until their affairs 
 gradually fell into his hands, and he at 
 length succeeded in gaining the entire 
 manao-ement of their estates : and he now 
 required only to have the disposal of their 
 personal freedom. Men of power in those 
 days were not very scrupulous as to the 
 means which they employed to obtain 
 their object ; he who had a score of re- 
 tainers, weighed the scales of life and 
 death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware 
 of the rank which his nieces held in the es- 
 timation of his country. Sir William knew 
 that it would not be safe to venture upon 
 making them prisoners by open violence. 
 He, therefore, courteously invited them 
 to his house at Herdmanstone, where he 
 stated that the gayest and the proudest 
 company in broad Scotland would be 
 present to delight them. Marion, who 
 was fond of amusements, was overjoyed 
 at the invitation ; but her sister Mar- 
 garet, who was of a graver disposition, 
 said — 
 
 " Well, sister, 1 like not our uncle's kind- 
 ness — something sinful seems to laugh in 
 his looks ; the very movement of his lips 
 bespeaks more than he reveals ; confide in 
 ?7ie, dear sister, and distrust him. When 
 I was but a child, playing around our 
 mother's knee, 1 have heard her say unto 
 my father — ' Ah, John ! I like not your 
 brother ; there is a cunning in his looks, 
 in his very words ; he cannot meet you 
 with the straightforward gaze of an honest 
 man ; and methinks he looks upon me as 
 though he distrusted and hated me ; yea, 
 I have often thou2;ht as thouQ;h he were 
 plotting evil against me.' So our mother 
 was wont to say ; and my father would re- 
 ply — ' Dear Elizabeth, think not so cru- 
 elly of one who is so near and dear to 
 me ; trust me, that he loves you and 
 yours.' * It may be so,' she would reply, 
 ' but there is that in his manner which I 
 cannot overcome.' Then our father would 
 remain silent for a time, and add — ^ Well, 
 
 there is a want of frankness in Sir Wil- 
 liam which becomes not a brother.' " 
 
 " Lull your suspicions, my demure sis- 
 ter," the light-hearted Marion replied ; 
 ^' a thousand times have I heard him say 
 that no one but the boldest baron in all 
 Scotland should wed his niece, Marion." 
 
 " And he said truly," replied Marga- 
 ret ; " for, if he have us once within his 
 power, not even the boldest ' knight in 
 Scotland will be able to receive our hands, 
 unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen 
 at his back, and the unsheathed sword to 
 enforce his suit." 
 
 ^' Oh, then, sister, subjoined Marion, 
 " I suppose you have a knight at hand who 
 would delight in such handy- work ; for is 
 not Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn re- 
 puted to be the most valorous knight upon 
 the Borders, and withal the humble 
 worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of 
 Polwarth." ) 
 
 And as the maiden spoke she laughed, 
 and tapped her sister good-naturedly upon 
 the cheek. Margaret blushed, and play- 
 fully replied — " Well, sister, is there no 
 valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir 
 Patrick ? What think ye of George 
 Hume .'"' 
 
 " No more of this," cried Marion ; " let 
 us accept our uncle's invitation, and min- 
 gle with the gay company he has invited 
 to meet us." 
 
 " If you will have it so, let it be so," re- 
 plied Margaret ; " but, trust me, I fear 
 that good will not come of it." 
 
 On the following day they set out upon 
 their journey towards Herdmanstone, ac- 
 companied with only two men-servants. 
 Their uncle received them ^vith a show of 
 cordial friendship ; but the guests whom 
 they expected to meet, they saw not, and 
 they had been but a few minutes beneath 
 his roof, when they found themselves priso- 
 ners, secured by gratings, bolts, and bars. 
 On discovering the situation into which 
 they had been entrapped, Marion wept 
 aloud, and accused herself of being the 
 unwitting author of her sister's captivity. 
 
POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
 
 195 
 
 " Fear not," said Margaret ; " our un- 
 cle is a stern man, he is a man of blood ; 
 but there are as strong luinds as his, that 
 will be raised to deliver the sisters of 
 Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their 
 captivity becomes known." 
 
 '"'- But how will it be known r" asked 
 Marion ; " for who knows that we are 
 here ?" 
 
 " Let us trust to Him who is the or- 
 phan's father," replied her sister, " and 
 leave all to His good providence." 
 
 " Amen," said the other ; but she 
 sobbed bitterly as she spoke. 
 
 On the second day of their imprison- 
 ment, their uncle entered the apartment 
 where they were confined. 
 
 Weel, 
 
 maidens," 
 
 said he sternly, 
 '^ how like ye your abode at Herdman- 
 stone .? I have observed the slio'htfu' een 
 with which baith o' you have looked upon 
 your uncle ; and now that ye are in my 
 power, ye shall repent the airs o' disdain 
 that ye hae taken upon you. It becomes 
 nae the blood o' Polwarths to assume a 
 superiority over the house o' Sinclair. 
 So choose ye — there are twa cousins who 
 are not very auld, but they're growing ; 
 ye shall hae your choice to marry them, 
 or the deepest dungeon in Herdmanstone 
 shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed 
 in your o^vn hands — decide it as ye will ; 
 but r-emember that it is a Sinclair that 
 never broke his word, that wags the finger 
 o' fate over your heads. Eight days ! 
 eight days! remember!" he repeated, 
 and left them. 
 
 '' Now, you will despise me, Margaret," 
 said Marion, " for my maiden ambition 
 has led us into this trouble ; yet will I 
 rather be an inmate in our uncle's dun- 
 geon, than be the wife of the boy-husband 
 he would assign me. Sister, will you not 
 upbraid me .'"' 
 
 " Upbraid you !" said the calm and 
 gentle Margaret, " stern as is our uncle, 
 deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. 
 The other day you spoke to me jeeringly 
 of Sir Patrick Hume — in the same strain 
 
 1 answered you respecting his brother 
 George. Eight days will not pass until 
 Sir Patrick miss me from Polwarth, and 
 powerful as my uncle may be, bold and 
 desperate as he is, I know that one stone 
 of Herdmanstone Castle will not be left 
 standing upon another until we are 
 freed." 
 
 " You have a brave heart, sister," said 
 Marion, " but it is small comfort to me, 
 who must look upon myself as the author 
 of this disaster. And how think ye that 
 Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye 
 will speak o' him) are to hear of our con- 
 finement > Wot ye not, that they know 
 not where we are ; or if they should know, 
 they will not apprehend that e\i\ could 
 befal us in the house of our relative .?" 
 
 " I believe, Marion," answered Marga- 
 ret, " that within the eight days which 
 our uncle has named, we shall either be at 
 liberty, or have ceased to live. It is our 
 lives that he seeks, not that we should be 
 the wives of his sons ; rather than be so 
 wed, 1 will die — so will you. But, if we 
 should die, our deaths would not be un- 
 avenged. He would neither enjoy our es- 
 tates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ye 
 have heard the names of Patrick and 
 George Hume of Wedderburn spoken of 
 as sounds of terror upon the Borders — 
 their swords have avenged the injured, 
 and released the captive. Marion ! they 
 will avenge our wrongs — dear sister, be 
 not afraid." 
 
 It was about daybreak on the fourth 
 day after their imprisonment, that a mu- 
 sician, who played upon the Union or 
 Northumbrian pipe of those days, ap- 
 proached beneath the window of their 
 apartment, and softly playing an air, ac- 
 companied it with his voice, as follows : — 
 
 My heart is divided between them, 
 
 I dinna ken which I wad hae ; 
 Right willing my heart I wad gien them — 
 
 But how can I gie it to twae ? 
 There's Meggy, a fairer or better 
 
 I'm certain there couldna weel be ; 
 Dumfounder-d the first time T met her, 
 
 What was sweet Marion to me ! 
 
196 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Yet Marion is gentle and bonny 
 
 I liked her ere Meggy I saw, 
 And they say it is sinfu' for ony 
 
 Man upon earth to like twa. 
 My heart it is rugg'd and tormented, 
 
 I'd live wi' or die for them baith ; 
 I've done what I've often repented, 
 
 To baith I have plighted my aith. 
 
 Ajid oft when I'm walking with Meggy, 
 
 I'll say "Dear Marion." and start ; 
 While fearfu' she'll say, '• Weel, I ken ye 
 
 Hae ithers mair dear to your heart." 
 Was ever a man sae confounded ? 
 
 I dinna ken what will be dune, 
 Baith sides o' my bosom are wounded, 
 
 And they'll be the death o' me sune. 
 
 " Hark !" said Marion, as she listened 
 to the strain of the minstrel ; " it is the 
 song of the Egyptian thief, Johnny Faa. 
 Mind ye since he sang it beneath our win- 
 dow at Kimmerghame ?" 
 
 " J remember it weel," replied Marga- 
 ret ; " but dinna call him thief, sister ; 
 for, be Johnny a king or no a king, he is 
 one that King James is glad to lift his 
 bonnet to ; and I am sure that he means 
 weel to us at present. Wheesht ye, 
 Marion, and I will whisper to him a low 
 ehaunt over the window.' And, in a low 
 voice, she sucg — 
 
 Oh, saw ye my laddie comin', Johnny ? 
 
 Oh, saw ye my laddie comin' ? 
 If ye've no seen him, tell him fraeme, 
 
 That I'm a woefu' woman. 
 We here are sisters twa, Johnny, 
 
 Confined within this tower ; 
 And ilka time the sun gaes down 
 
 It points to our death hour. 
 
 " I heard it rumored, gentle maiden," 
 said the gipsy, gazing eagerly towards the 
 window from whence they looked, " that 
 no good was intended ye in this place ; 
 and though it be not in the power of John- 
 ny Faa to bring to ye the assistance of his 
 own men, yet it strikes me there is ane, 
 if no twa.y maidens, that I could bring to 
 your rescue, and that wad make a clap o' 
 thunder ring through the deepest cell in 
 Herdnianstone.'' 
 
 " Thank ye, Johnny," replied Marga- 
 ret; " ye're kind — ye're very kind; and 
 if ye wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to 
 Wedderburn Castle, greatly would ye aid 
 a distressed damsel." 
 
 *' I thank ye, my doo, for relying on 
 the word and promise o' John, king and 
 lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken 
 me, and less is their knowledge o' our race, 
 who think that we would look upon those 
 who are wronged without seeing them 
 righted. How I heard of your imprison- 
 ment or the wrong intended ye, never fash 
 your thumb ; though a bird waffed it in 
 my lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped 
 it in them as it chirmed past me, it is 
 enough that I ken o' your wrongs, and that 
 I will assist ye. Trust me, maidens." 
 
 " I will trust ye," answered ?vlargaret. 
 
 " Dinna trust him, sister," said Marion; 
 " he may be some spy of our uncle's." 
 
 " Of being a spy," cried the other, " I 
 dinnabelieve him capable Stop, Johnny, 
 or king, or whatever ye be," she added, 
 " and I will throw ye a word or two 
 to carry to Sir Patrick Hume of Wedder- 
 burn." 
 
 She addressed to him a few words, and 
 threw the paper which contained them into 
 the hands of the gipsy. 
 
 " Bless ye for your confidence, my bon- 
 ny lassie !" said Johnny Faa ; " and before 
 the sun gae down. Sir Patrick Hume shall 
 ken that there is ane that likes him pining 
 in a captive's prison, wi' none but ane 
 that his brother likes to bear her compa- 
 ny," 
 
 The gipsy king was mounted on an 
 active pony, and although it was without 
 a saddle, and reined only by a hempen 
 bridal, he dashed off with it, at the pace 
 of a fleet racer, and directed his course 
 towards the Lammermoors. 
 
 It was not noon when he arrived at the 
 Castle of Wedderburn. The porter at 
 the gate retreated in terror as he beheld 
 him, for the name of the Faa king had 
 become terrible on the Borders, and even 
 the king had been glad to grant him terms 
 on his own choosing. On beinc; admitted 
 to the presence of the knight — " What is 
 it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir Patrick, 
 '' that brings ye to venture within the roof 
 o' honest men .?" 
 
POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
 
 197 
 
 " Honest !" said tlie gipsy — " ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! I dare srj your honesty and mine is 
 muckle about a par. Between us two it 
 is, take who can. Ye hae the bit land, 
 Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or 
 a more cunning hand, nor yet a sharper 
 sword than the lord o' Little Egypt. 
 Therefore, speak at evens with me, -lest ye 
 rue it." 
 
 ^' And wherefore should I speak at 
 evens," answered Hume, " with the like o' 
 you, who are at best but the king o^ gaber- 
 lunzie men." 
 
 " The mischief light on ye !" said the 
 gipsy ; " ye have provoked me sair, and I 
 have tholed wi' your slights and taunting ; 
 but try me not wi' another word, lest ye 
 rue it. Sir Patrick Plume, and your bro- 
 ther rue it, and every Hume o' the house o' 
 Wedderburn shall be brought to cry 
 dool, for refusing to listen to the words o' 
 Johnny Faa." 
 
 " And what wad ye say if ye had yuur 
 will, ye braggart knave .?" cried the 
 knight. 
 
 " Merely," retorted the gipsy, " that 
 there is a bonny lassie, ane who is owre 
 guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an in- 
 dividual as yourseP, now lying in durance, 
 wi' death or perpetual imprisonment 
 before her, while ye havena the courage to 
 lift your hand to her rescue." 
 
 " Of whom speak ye .^" vociferated the 
 laird of Wedderburn. 
 
 " Who," rejoined the gipsy, slily, "is 
 nearest to your heart } — who nearest to 
 your door ? Have you seen her within 
 these four days .'^" 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Sir Patrick, " speak 
 ye of my Margaret.'^" 
 
 " Of whom does your heart tell you that 
 I speak .?" said Faa. 
 
 " It is then to her that ye allude .^" cried 
 Sir Patrick. 
 
 " Ay, it is to her," was the reply ; 
 " and what knight are ye that would re- 
 main here idly within your castle, while 
 death threatens the maiden of your 
 love?" 
 
 '' Pardon me, stranger,'' said Sir Pa- 
 trick ; " tell me where she is." 
 
 " Ye ask me to pardon ye now," 
 answered the gipsy proudly ; *' ye knew 
 me before, when the insult was offered, ye 
 know me still. It is not because ye bear 
 a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I 
 have heard of your deeds of war that I 
 come to you ; but it is because of the 
 maiden who loves you as the Mayfly does 
 the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and 
 her sister are the prisoners of their uncle, 
 Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone. 
 He has looked with an eye of covetousness 
 upon their estates — he longs to possess 
 them ; and, if they be not yielded to him, 
 the life of the fair owners now in his pow- 
 er must pay the forfeit." 
 
 The knight clasjoed the hand of the gip- 
 sy. " Thank ye, thank ye," he cried ; 
 " I will reward ye for this act of kind- 
 ness." 
 
 '• You reward me !" shouted the gipsy 
 king, disdainfully, " think ye that when 
 the king of Little Egypt does an act of 
 humanity or generosity, he is to be reward- 
 ed for it by a Scottish knight ! Away 
 with ye, man ! I spurn your thanks! I 
 am as far above them as the moon is above 
 the glow-worm that glimmers on the 
 ground — ay, as the sun above the foetid 
 matter from which it draws life. Know, 
 then, that Margaret Sinclair and her sister 
 will die unless ye have courage to release 
 them, and that before another Sabbath 
 shine a holiday to you." 
 
 Wedderburn held his hand in thankful- 
 ness. " Forgive me, forgive me," he 
 cried ; " I have spoken unjustly to one 
 that has a soul within him, and who has 
 sympathized for those in whom my happi- 
 ness is bound up. Again, I say, forgive 
 me." 
 
 " Ye are forgiven," said the Faa ; " and, 
 if assistance be needed in the hour of peril, 
 ye shall find willing hands ready to help 
 ye, though ye deserve it not." 
 
 So saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, 
 and withdrew from the presence of Hume. 
 
198 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Sir Patrick bore the tidings instantly to 
 his brother ; and, within two hours, a hun- 
 dred of their retainers stood armed around 
 Wedderburn Castle. "To Herdman- 
 stone !" was the cry ; " and the rescue of 
 the lady love of the Lord of Wedder-. 
 burn !" 
 
 " Ay, and for Marion, the maid of 
 Kimmerghame !" cried George, the bro- 
 ther of Sir Patrick ; " and the Sinclairs 
 shall wear stout bucklers and belts to boot, 
 that this sword pierce not." 
 
 The party being marshalled, they took 
 their way across the Lammermoors with 
 the brothers Sir Patrick and George 
 Hume at their head. It was shortly after 
 daybreak when they appeared before 
 Herdmanstone Castle; and the Lady 
 Margaret was the first to perceive their 
 approach. 
 
 " Sister !" she cried ; " see ! see ! aid 
 is at hand — the banner of the Humes 
 is wavino- over the fields of Herdman- 
 stone." 
 
 " Ye dream, sister !" said Marion, start- 
 ing from her couch. 
 
 " Nay, I dream not," retorted Marga- 
 ret. " Arise ; through the grey light I 
 perceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, 
 and the gay jack which my sister wrought 
 for his brother." 
 
 Marion sprang forward to the window 
 where her sister stood ; they thrust their 
 hands from the window, to encourage their 
 deliverers to the rescue, while Sir Patrick 
 and his brother answered them back, cry- 
 ino- — " We come ! we come ! The hauo-h- 
 ty and cruel Sinclair shall repent in blood." 
 The trumpets of the Humes sounded ; 
 and, as if prepared for the approaching 
 conflict, within a few minutes, more than 
 fifty retainers of Sir William Sinclair 
 were in arms. Ignorant of the number of 
 their foes, they rushed forth to meet them, 
 hand to hand, and sword to sword. Long 
 the strife was desperate — it was even doubt- 
 ful; but, at length, superiority of numbers, 
 on the part of the Humes, prevailed; the 
 retainers of Sir William were routed in all 
 
 directions, and his caslle was assailed, even 
 to its threshold. " To the rescue of the 
 fair maidens !" shouted the Humes. In- 
 dependent of the immediate retainers of 
 Sir William Sinclair, however, his neigh- 
 bors came to his aid, and, although they 
 were, at first, as two to one, the conflict 
 had not lasted long when the Humes be- 
 came the weaker party. The battle raged 
 keenly — swords were broken in the grasp 
 of their owners — the strong war-horse 
 kicked upon the ground, in the agony of 
 death, indenting; the earth with its hoofs 
 as it died, leaving the impression of its 
 agony — their wounded men grappled with, 
 and reviled each other, as though they had 
 been foreigners or aliens — spears were 
 broken, and shields clanked against each 
 other — while the war-shout and the dying 
 groan mingled together. Victory seemed 
 still to be doubtful ; for, though the 
 Humes fought bravely, and their leaders 
 led them on as with the heroism of despair, 
 yet every minute the numbers of their 
 adversaries increased, while theirs if the 
 expression might be used, became fewer 
 and more few. 
 
 Yet there were two spectators of the 
 conflict who beheld it with feelings that 
 may not, that cannot be described. Now 
 the one beheld the plume which she had 
 adorned for her betrothed husband, severed 
 by the sword of an enemy ; while the 
 otKer saw the gay jerkin, which she had 
 weave-d for hers, tarnished with blood. 
 They perceived, also, what we might term 
 the ebbing and the flowing of the deadly 
 feud — the retreating and the driving back ; 
 and they were spectators also of the 
 wounded, the dying, and the dead. They 
 saw the party, in whom their hop^s were 
 fixed, gradually overpowered — they beheld 
 them fall back beneath the swords of their 
 opponents, disputing inch by inch as they 
 retired, and their hearts fell within them. 
 When hope, fear, and anxiety were 
 wrought to their highest point of en- 
 durance, and the party in whom their 
 trust lay seemed to be vanquished, and 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 199 
 
 were driven back, at that period, Johnny 
 Faa, and a number of his followers, rush- 
 ed to their succour. 
 
 "Hurra!' exclaimed the wanderer, 
 '' for the braw lasses o' Polwarth and 
 Kimmerghame ! Fight, ye Humes ! fight ! 
 There is a prize before ye worthy a clour 
 on the crown, or even a stab through the 
 brisket." 
 
 The approach of the Faa king turned 
 the tide of victory, and his followers shout- 
 ed — " The bonny lasses o' Polwarth and 
 Kimmerghame shall be free !" 
 
 " For ever, ay, and a day after it," 
 cried Sir William, " shall the man inherit 
 a cow's mailing, and a cow to boot, upon 
 the lands o' Herdmanstone, who this day 
 brings me upon his sword the head o' one 
 o' the birkies o' Wedderburn." Sir Wil- 
 liam, however, became a suppliant for 
 mercy beneath the red sword of Patrick 
 Hume ; and his life being granted, the 
 Sinclairs gave their arms into the hands 
 of their opponents. The young brothers 
 each rushed into the house, to the rescue 
 of the captive damsels ; and Margaret and 
 Marion each fell upon the neck of the man 
 she loved. 
 
 On arriving at Polwarth, they were met 
 
 by the glad villagers, with whom the fair 
 ladies joined hands, and they danced to- 
 gether in joy around a thorn tree, upon 
 the village green. 
 
 In a few weeks, each of the maidens 
 gave her hand to her deliverer — Margaret 
 to Sir Patrick, and Marion to his brother 
 George. On their marriage-day, the dance 
 around the thorn upon the green was re- 
 sumed, and a festive crowd tripped joyous- 
 ly around it, blessing the bride of Pol- 
 warth and her fair sister, Marion of Kim- 
 merghame ; and the music to which they 
 that day danced, proceeded from the pipes 
 of king Johnny Faa, who, with half a 
 dozen of his people, sat each with a pair 
 of union pipes beneath his arm, and dis- 
 coursing " most eloquent music," without 
 " fee, favor, or reward," save that they 
 were partakers of the good things which 
 were that day plentifully cii'culated upon 
 Polwarth green. 
 
 In concludins; this account of the co- 
 heiresses of Polwarth and Kimmerghame, 
 it is only necessary to add that, from her 
 union with Hume of W^edderburn, the fair 
 Margaret became the progenitor of the 
 future Earls of Marchmont, 
 
 THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 When I was a boy, I used to pass the 
 summer vacation in the Isle of Bute, 
 where my father had a small cottage, for 
 the convenience of sea bathing. I enjoyed 
 my sea-side visits greatly, for I was pas- 
 sionately fond of boating and fishing, and, 
 before I was sixteen, had become a fear- 
 less and excellent swimmer. From morn- 
 ing till night, I was rambling about the 
 beach, or either sailing upon or swimming 
 in the beautiful Frith. I was a prime fa- 
 vorite among the fisherman, with most of 
 whom I was on familiar terms, and knew 
 
 them all by name. Among their number 
 was one man who particularly attracted 
 my attention, and excited my curiosity. 
 He was civil and obliging, though distant 
 and reserved in his manners, with a shade 
 of habitual melancholy on his counte- 
 nance, which awakened my sympathy, at 
 the same time that his " bearing," which 
 was much above his station, commanded 
 my respect. He appeared to be about 
 sixty years of age ; particularly prepos- 
 sessing in his appearance ; and his lan- 
 o-uaire and demeanor would have done 
 
200 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 honor to any rank of society. I felt in- 
 voluntarily attracted towards him, and 
 took every opportunity of showing my 
 wish to please and become better acquaint- 
 ed with him ; but in vain. He seemed 
 gratified by my attentions ; but I made no 
 nearer approach to his confidence. He 
 went, among his companions, by the name 
 of "Gentleman Douglas;" but they ap- 
 peared to be as ignorant of the particu- 
 lars of his history as myself. All they 
 knew of him was, that he had come among 
 them, a perfect stranger, some years be- 
 fore, no one knew from whence ; that he 
 seemed to have some means of support 
 independent of his boat ; and that he was 
 melancholy, silent, and reserved — as much 
 as possible avoiding all communication 
 with his neighbors. These particulars 
 only served to whet my boyish curiosity, 
 and I determined to leave no means un- 
 tried to penetrate to the bottom of Doug- 
 las' mystery. Let me do myself justice, 
 however : my eagerness to know his his- 
 tory proceeded from an earnest desire to 
 soothe his sorrow, whatever it might be, 
 and to benefit him in any way in my pow- 
 er. Day after day I used to stroll down 
 to the beach, when he was preparing to 
 get his boat under way, and volunteer to 
 pull an oar on board. At first he seemed 
 annoyed by my ofiiciousness ; and, though 
 he always behaved with civility, shewed, 
 by his impatient manner, that he would 
 rather dispense with my company; but 
 the constant dripping of water will wear 
 away a stone, and hard indeed must be 
 the heart that will not be softened by un- 
 remitting kindness. My persevering wish 
 to please him gradually produced the de- 
 sired effect — he was pleased, and evinced 
 it by his increasing cordiality of manner, 
 and by the greater interest he seemed to 
 take in all my movements. In a short 
 time we became inseparables, and his boat 
 hardly ever left the shore without me. 
 My father was not at all adverse to my 
 intimacy with Douglas ; he knew him to 
 be a sober, industrious man, and one who 
 
 bore an irreproachable moral character ; 
 and, as he was anxious that I should 
 strengthen my constitution as much as 
 possible in the sea-breeze, he thought I 
 could not roam about under safer or less 
 objectionable protection. On a further 
 acquaintance with Douglas, I found him a 
 most agreeable companion ; for, when his 
 reserve wore ofi", his conversation was 
 amusinp^ and instructive ; and he had tales 
 to tell of foreign lands and of distant seas, 
 which he described with that minuteness 
 and closeness which only a personal ac- 
 quaintance with them could have produced. 
 Often, in the course of his narration, his 
 eye would brighten and his cheek glow 
 with an emotion foreign to his usual calm 
 and melancholy manner ; and then he 
 would suddenly stop, as if some sound 
 he had uttered had awakened dark memo- 
 ries of the past, and the gloom clouded 
 his brow again, his voice trembled, and 
 his cheek grew pale. These sudden tran- 
 sitions alarmed and surprised me ; my 
 suspicions were excited, and I began to 
 imagine that the man must have been 
 
 o 
 
 guilty of some unknown and dreadful 
 crime, and that conscience was at such 
 times busy within him. Douglas must 
 have observed my changing manner ; but 
 it made little alteration in his demeanor 
 towards myself. 
 
 " What is the matter, Douglas ?" said I, 
 one day, when I observed him start and turn 
 pale at some casual observation of mine. 
 
 " Do not indulge a vain and idle curi- 
 osity, Master Charles, at the expense of 
 another's feelings," replied he, gravely 
 and mournfully, " nor endeavor to rake 
 up the ashes of the past. The heart 
 knows its own bitterness : long may yours 
 be a stranger to sorrow ! I have observed, 
 with pain, that you, as others have done, 
 begin to look upon me with suspicion. Be 
 satisfied with the assurance, that I have 
 no crimes, needing concealment, to re- 
 proach myself with ; and the sorrows of 
 age should be sacred in the eyes of youth." 
 
 I was humbled by the old man's reproof, 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 201 
 
 and hastened to express my concern for 
 liavino; hurt his feelino;s. 
 
 " Enough said, enough said, Mr. 
 Charles," said he ; " Curiosity is natural 
 at your age ; and I am not surprised at 
 your wishing, like some of your elders, to 
 learn the cause of the melancholy which 
 hangs over me like a cloud, darkening the 
 path of life, and embittering all its plea- 
 sures. At some future time I will tell 
 you the reason why you see me what I 
 am ; but 1 cannot now — the very thought 
 of it unmans me." 
 
 Time wore on ; every year I returned 
 to the sea-side during the summer, and 
 was always welcomed with unaffected cor- 
 diality by my old ally, Douglas. I was 
 now a strapping youth of nineteen, tall 
 and powerful of my age — thanks to the 
 bracing sea-air and constant exercise. 
 One day Douglas told me he was going 
 over to Largs, and asked if I would ac- 
 company him. 
 
 '^ With all my heart," said I ; and, in 
 ten minutes, we were standing across the 
 Frith with a fine steady breeze. We were 
 close over to the Ayrshire coast, when a 
 sudden puff of wind capsized the boat, 
 and we were both thrown into the water. 
 When I rose to the surface ag-ain, after 
 my plunge, I looked around in vain for 
 Douglas, who had disappeared. He had 
 on a heavy pea jacket, and I was at first 
 afraid the weight and encumbrance of it 
 must have sunk him ; but, on second 
 thoughts, I dived under the boat, and 
 found him floundering about beneath the 
 sail, from whence I succeeded with great 
 difl&culty in extricating him. He was 
 quite exhausted, and it required all my 
 strength to support him to the gunnel of 
 the boat. After hanging on there some 
 time, to recover breath, we swam toorether 
 to the beach, which was not far distant. 
 When we landed, he seated hiaiself on a 
 large stone, and remained silent for some 
 time, with his face buried in his hands. 
 
 '' Douglas," said I, wondering at his 
 long silence, " are you hurt .''" 
 
 To my great surprise I heard low sobs, 
 and saw the tears trickling between his 
 fingers. Thinking that he was grieved at 
 the loss of his boat, I said — 
 
 " Cheer up, man ! jf the boat be lost, 
 we will manage among us to get another 
 for you." 
 
 " 'Tisn't the boat, sir, 'tisn't the boat 
 — we can soon raise her again : it is your 
 kindness that has made a fool of me." 
 
 He then looked up in my face, and, 
 drying his glistening cheek with one hand, 
 he shook mine long and heartily with the 
 other. 
 
 " Mr. Charles, before I met you, I 
 thoug^ht I was alone in the world ; shun- 
 ned, by most around me, as a man of mys- 
 tery. Because I could not join in their 
 rude sports and boisterous merriment, 
 they attributed my reserve and visible de- 
 jection to sinister causes — possibly to some 
 horrible and undiscovered crime." A 
 blush here flitted across my countenance ; 
 but Douglas did not remark it. '' Young, 
 and warm, and enthusiastic, you sought 
 me out with different feelings — you were 
 attracted towards me by pity, and by a 
 generous desire to relieve my distress. It 
 was not the mere impulse of a moment ; 
 your kindness has been constant and un- 
 wavering — and now you have crowned all 
 by saving my life. I hardly know whether 
 or not to thank you for what was so worth- 
 less to myself; but I do thank you from 
 the bottom of my heart for the friendly 
 and generous feeling which actuated you. 
 You shall know the cause of the sorrow 
 that weighs upon my heart ; I would not 
 that one to whom I owe so much, should 
 look upon me with the slightest shade of 
 suspicion. I think, when you know my 
 story, you will pity and sympathize with 
 me ; but you will judge less harshly, I 
 doubt not, than I do of myself." 
 
 " Do not call up unnecessary remem- 
 brances, which harrow your feelings, 
 Douo-las. That I have often thought there 
 is mystery about you, I will not deny ; but 
 only once did the possibility of a cause of 
 
202 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 guilt flash across my mind ; that unworthy 
 suspicion has long past, and I am now 
 heartily ashamed of myself for having 
 harbored it for a moment. But we are 
 forgetting the boat; we must try to get 
 assistance to right her." 
 
 We soon fell in with one of the fisher- 
 men on the coast, with whose assistance 
 she was speedily righted and baled out ; 
 and, after having done what we came for 
 at Largs, we returned homewards. 
 
 " Meet me to-morrow at ten o'clock, 
 Mr. Charles," said Douglas, as he grasped 
 my hand at parting, " and you shall then 
 hear my story, and judge whether or not 
 I have cause to grieve." 
 
 At the appointed hour next morning I 
 hastened to the rendezvous ; — the fisher- 
 man was already there, waiting for me. 
 
 '' I daresay you are surprised to see me 
 here so soon," said he ;. " but now that I 
 have determined to make you my confi- 
 dant, I feel eager to disburthen my mind, 
 and to seek relief from my sorrows in the 
 sympathy of one whom I am so proud to 
 call my friend. 
 
 I was not always in the humble station 
 in which you now see me, Mr. Stewart ; 
 but, thank heaven ! it was no misconduct 
 of my own that occasioned the change. 
 My father was an English clergyman, 
 whose moderate stipend denied to his fa- 
 milv the luxuries of life ; but we had rea- 
 son to acknowledge the truth of the wise 
 man's saying, that " a dinner of herbs, 
 where love is," is better than more sump- 
 tuous fare where that love is not : we were 
 a united and a happy family, contented 
 with the competence with which Provi- 
 dence had blessed us, and pitying, not en- 
 vying, those who, endowed with greater 
 wealth, were exposed to greater tempta- 
 tions. Oh ! those happy, happy days ! 
 It sometimes almost maddens me, Mr. 
 Stewart, to compare myself, as I am now, 
 with what I was then. Every morning I 
 rose with a light and happy heart, exulting 
 in the sunbeam that awakened me with its 
 smile, and blessing, in the gladfulness of 
 
 youthful gratitude, the gracious Giver of 
 light and life. My heart overflowed with 
 love to all created beings. I could look 
 back without regret, and the future was 
 bright with hope. And now, what am I ■: 
 A broken-hearted man ; but still, after 
 all my suff"erings, grateful to the hand 
 which has chastened me. I can picture 
 the whole family grouped on a summer 
 evening, now, Mr. Stewart, as vividly as 
 a sight of yesterday, though fifty years 
 have cast their dark shadows between. 
 My mother, seated beside her work-table 
 under the neat verandah in front of our 
 cottage, encouraging my sisters, with her 
 sweet smile and gentle voice, in the work- 
 ing of their first sampler ; my father, 
 seated with his book, under the shade of 
 his favorite laburnum tree ; while my bro- 
 ther and I were trundling our hoops round 
 the garden, shouting with boyish glee ; 
 and my little fair-haired cousin, Julia, totr- 
 terino; alono; with her little hands extended, 
 to catch the butterfly that tempted her on 
 from flower to flower. My brother Henry 
 was two years younger than myself, and 
 was, at the time I speak of, a remarkably 
 handsome, active boy, of ten years of age ; 
 full of fun and mischief; unsteady and 
 volatile. My father found considerable 
 difficulty in confining Henry's attention 
 to his studies ; for, though uncommonly 
 quick and intelligent, he wanted patience 
 and application. He could not bear the 
 drudgery of poring over musty books. 
 He used to say to me — " How 1 should 
 like to be an officer, a gallant naval offi- 
 cer, to lead on my men through fire and 
 smoke to victory !" And then the little 
 fellow would wave his hand, while the 
 color flushed his cheeks, and shout — 
 " Come on ! come on !" He had, some- 
 how or other, got possession of an old 
 naval chronicle ; and from that moment 
 his whole thoughts were of ships and bat- 
 tles, and his principal amusement was to 
 launch little fleets of ships upon the pond 
 at the bottom of the garden. My father, 
 though mild and indulgent in other mat- 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 203 
 
 ters, was a strict disciplinarian in educa- 
 tion ; and often did I save Henry from 
 punishment by helping him with his exer- 
 cises and other lessons. Dearly did I love 
 my gallant, high-spirited little brother ; 
 and he looked up to me with equal fond- 
 ness. 
 
 I will not weary you with details ; but 
 at once jump over the next twelve years 
 of my life. The scene was now greatly 
 changed at the parsonage : death had 
 been busy among its inmates ; a conta- 
 gious disorder had carried off my mother 
 and sisters, and my poor father was left 
 alone in his old age — not alone, for Julia 
 was still with him. I forgot to say, be- 
 fore, that she was the orphan daughter of 
 his elder brother. Julia, at sixteen, was 
 beautiful. I will not attempt to describe 
 her, although every feature, every expres- 
 sion of her lovely countenance, is vividly 
 pictured in my heart. She was its light, 
 its pride, its hope. Alas ! alas ! she had 
 grown up like a sweet flower beside me, 
 and, from her infancy, had clung to me 
 with a sister's confidence, and more than 
 a sister's affection. Was it wonderful 
 that I loved her ? Yes, I loved her fondly 
 and devotedly ; and I soon had the bliss 
 of knowing that my affection was returned. 
 I had been for some time at college, stu- 
 dying for the church, when a distant re- 
 lation died, and left me a comfortable 
 competency. My father now consented 
 with pleasure to my union with Julia ; 
 and a distant day was fixed for the mar- 
 riage, to enable my brother Henry to be 
 present. He had been abroad for some 
 time in the merchant service, and his con- 
 stant employment had prevented his visit- 
 ing home for many years ; but he had writ- 
 ten to say that he expected now to have a 
 long holiday with us. At length he re- 
 turned ; and great was my joy at meeting 
 my beloved brother once more. He was 
 a fine, handsome, manly-looking fellow — 
 frank and boisterous in his manner, kind 
 and generous in his disposition, but the 
 slave of passion and impulse. In a week 
 
 after his return, he became dull and re- 
 served, and every one remarked the extra- 
 ordinary change that had come over him. 
 My fixther and I both thought that our 
 quiet and monotonous life wearied and 
 disgusted him, and that he longed for the 
 more bustling scenes to which he had been 
 accustomed. "Come, Harry!" said 1 to 
 him one day, " cheer up, my boy ! we 
 shall be merry enough soon : you must lay 
 in a fresh stock of spirits ; Julia will 
 quarrel with you if you show such a mel- 
 ancholy phiz at our wedding." He turn- 
 ed from me with impatience, and, rushing 
 out into the garden, I saw no more of him 
 that day. I was hurt and surprised by his 
 manner, and hastened to express my an- 
 noyance to Julia. She received me with 
 less than her usual warmth, blushed when 
 I talked of my brother, and soon left me 
 on some trifling pretext. My father had 
 gone to visit a neighboring clergyman, at 
 whose house he was taken suddenly and 
 alarmingly ill. I hastened to his bedside, 
 and found him in such a precarious state 
 that I determined upon remaining near 
 him. I therefore despatched a messenger 
 to Julia, informing her of my intention, 
 and intimating that it would be necessary 
 to postpone our marriage, which was to 
 have taken place in the course of a week, 
 until my father's recovery. In answer to 
 my letter, 1 received a short and hurried 
 reply, merely acquiescing in the propriety 
 of my movements, and without any ex- 
 pression of regret at my lengthened ab- 
 sence. Surprised at the infrequency and 
 too apparent indifference of Julia's an- 
 swers to the long and impassioned letters 
 which I almost daily wrote to her, alarmed 
 at the long interval which had elapsed 
 since I last heard from her, and fearing 
 that illness might have occasioned her 
 silence, I left my father, who was rapidly 
 recovering, and hastened home. When I 
 arrived at the parsonage, I walked into 
 the drawing-room ; but, as neither Julia 
 nor my brother was there, I concluded 
 they were out walking, and, taking a book, 
 
204 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 I sat down, impatiently waiting their re- 
 turn. Some time having elapsed, however, 
 without their making their appearance, I 
 rang the bell ; and our aged servant, on 
 entering, started at seeing me there. 
 
 " La, sir !" said she, " I didn't expect 
 to see you .'" 
 
 " Where are Miss Julia and my bro- 
 ther !" 
 
 " Why, la, sir ! I was just agoing to 
 ask you. Miss Julia had a letter from 
 you about a week ago, and she and Mr. 
 Henry went off in a poshay together next 
 day. They said they would be back to- 
 day." 
 
 I said not a word in reply, but buried 
 my face in my folded arms on the table, 
 while the cold perspiration flowed over my 
 brow, and my heart sickened within me, as 
 the fatal truth by degrees broke upon me. 
 " Fool, fond fool, that I was, to have 
 been so long blind !" muttered I ; " but 
 it cannot be ! — Julia ! — my Julia ! — no, 
 no !" And I almost cursed myself for 
 the unworthy suspicion. But why dwell 
 longer upon these moments of agony .^ 
 My first surmise was a correct one : in a 
 week's time all was known — my brother, 
 my brother Harry, for whom I would 
 have sacrificed fortune, life itself, had be- 
 trayed my dearest trust, and had become 
 the husband of her I had fondly thought 
 my own. The blow was too sudden and 
 overpowering ; I sank beneath it ; my 
 reason became unsettled, and, for several 
 months, I was unconscious of my own 
 misery. I awoke to sense, an altered 
 man. My heart was crushed, my very 
 blood seemed to be turned into gall, 1 
 hated my kind, and resolved to seclude 
 myself for ever from a world of falsehood 
 and ingratitude. The only tie which 
 could have reconciled me to life had been 
 wrenched away from me during my un- 
 consciousness : my brother's misconduct 
 had broken my father's heart, and I was 
 left alone in the world. I paid one sad 
 visit to my father's grave, shed over it 
 bitter tears of sorrow and disappointment, 
 
 and from that hour to this I have never 
 seen the home in which I passed so many 
 happy days. Some months afterwards, I 
 received a letter from a friend residing; in 
 Wales, of a very extraordinary nature, 
 requiring me instantly to visit him, and 
 stating that he had something of impor- 
 tance to communicate to me. I knew the 
 writer, and confided in him ; he had 
 known my misfortune, and wept with me 
 over the loss of my Julia and of my fa- 
 ther. I hastened to him on the wino-s of 
 expectation ; and, when I arrived, was 
 taken by him into an inner apartment of 
 his house, with an air of secrecy and mys- 
 tery. 
 
 " Have you yet recovered from the ef- 
 fects of your misfortunes .'" said he. "I 
 have often reflected on your extraordina- 
 ry fate, and pitied you from the inner- 
 most recesses of my soul. Would you 
 believe it .^ — I have in store for you an 
 antidote against the grief of your ruined 
 affections ; but I will not say a medicine 
 for your pain, or a balm for your sor- 
 rows." 
 
 " For a broken heart," said I, ^' there 
 is no cure in this world." 
 He looked at me, and wept. 
 *' Dress yourself in this suit of my 
 mournings,'' he said, " and accompany 
 me whither I will lead you." 
 
 I gazed at him in amazement ; but he 
 left me to put on the weeds, and to tor- 
 ture myself with vain thoughts. 
 
 He returned and called me out. I fol- 
 lowed him. We went some little dis- 
 tance, and joined a funeral that was 
 slowly proceeding to the burying-ground. 
 My confusion prevented me from looking 
 at the time to see who was chief mourner. 
 I proceeded with the mourners, and soon 
 stood on the brink of the grave. When 
 the pall was taken off, and the coffin low- 
 ered down into the earth, my eye caught 
 the inscription on the plate ; it was " J. 
 M., aged 20." ''So young!" muttered 
 I ; and at the same moment I glanced at 
 the chief mourner. He had withdrawn 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 205 
 
 his handkerchief from his face — our eyes 
 met — he turned deadly pale, and made a 
 motion as if to leave the ground ; but I 
 sprang forward, almost shrieking, " Hen- 
 ry !" and detained him. I looked in his 
 face. Oh, what a change was there ! 
 His eye quailed beneath the cold, steady, 
 withering glance of mine. I felt that he 
 read the meanino; of that glance ; for he 
 absolutely writhed beneath it. 
 
 " Do not revile me, brother," murmur- 
 ed he : " the hand of Heaven has been 
 heavy upon me ; my crime has already 
 met with its punishment. Oh, my poor, 
 poor Julia !" 
 
 " Where, where is she .?" wildly ex- 
 claimed I. He pointed to the new-made 
 
 crave 
 
 Oh, the bitterness of that hour ! We 
 wept — the betrayer and the betrayed wept 
 together over the grave of their buried 
 hopes. I arose calm and collected. 
 " Brother," said I, giving him my hand, 
 " my animosity shall be buried with her ; 
 may your own heart forgive you as freely 
 as I do the injury you have done me ! 
 But we must never meet more." And, 
 with slow steps and aching heart, I turned 
 and left the spot. 
 
 I received a letter from Henry some 
 time afterwards from one of the outports, 
 telling me that he was just on the point 
 of leaving England for ever, and implor- 
 ing my forgiveness in the most touching 
 terms, " for the sake of our early days, 
 the happy years of our boyhood." Those 
 early days — those happy days ! — my heart 
 softened towards him as I thoug-ht of them. 
 Sorely as he had wronged me, he was my 
 brother still, and I felt that I could, if 
 permitted, clasp him to my heart once 
 more. 
 
 Weary of life, and tired of the world, 
 I dragged on a miserable existence for 
 some time, in a secluded situation on the 
 shores of Cornwall ; but, by degrees, the 
 monotony of my sedentary and recluse 
 life wearied me. I began to associate 
 with the poor fishermen around me, and, 
 
 in a short time, became enthusiastically 
 fond of their perilous and exciting mode 
 of life. The sea became to me quite a 
 "passion" — my mind had found a new 
 channel for its energies ; and when, a 
 short time afterwards, I lost my little for- 
 tune through the mismanagement or vil- 
 lany of my agent, I took staff in hand, 
 and, hastening to Liverpool, boldly launch- 
 ed into life again as a common seaman, 
 on board a merchant vessel bound to the 
 West Indies. 
 
 I had toiled on for several years as a 
 common seaman, during which time I at- 
 tracted the notice of my captain, by my 
 indefatigable attention to the duties of my 
 station, and by the reckless indifference 
 with which I lavished mj strength, and 
 often risked my life, in the performance 
 of them. 
 
 " Douglas," (for that was the name 
 which I had assumed,) " Douglas," said 
 the captain to me one day, after I had 
 been particularly active during a heavy 
 gale we encountered, " I must try if I 
 cannot do something for you : your ac- 
 tivity and energy entitle you to promo- 
 tion. I will speak to the owners when we 
 return, and endeavor to procure you a 
 mate's berth." I thanked him, and went 
 forward again to my duty. A few days 
 afterwards, we were going along with a 
 strong beaming wind ; there was a high 
 sea running, every now and then throw- 
 ing a thick spray over the weather bul- 
 warks ; the hands were at dinner, and I 
 was just coming up to relieve the man at 
 the wheel ; there was no one on deck but 
 the mate of the watch, and the captain, 
 who was standing on the weather bulwark, 
 shaking the backstays, to feel if they bore 
 an equal strain: all at once the ship gave 
 a heavy weather lurch, the captain lost 
 his footing, and was overboard in a mo- 
 ment. I instantly sprang aft, cut away 
 the life-buoy, and knowing that he was 
 but an indifferent swimmer, jumped over- 
 board after him. As I said before, the 
 sea was running high, and a few minutes 
 
206 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 elapsed before I caught sight of him ris- 
 ing on the crest of a -wave, at some dis- 
 tance from me. I saw he could not hold 
 out long ; for he was over-exerting him- 
 self, shouting and raising his hand for as- 
 sistance, and his face was pale as death. 
 I struck out desperately towards him, and 
 shouted, when I got near him, " Keep up 
 your heart, sir ; be cool ; don't attempt 
 to lay hold of me, and please God, I will 
 save you yet.'' My advice had the de- 
 sired effect, and restored his self-posses- 
 sion ; he became more cool and collected, 
 and with occasional support from me, 
 contrived to reach the life-buoy. In the 
 meantime, all was confusion on board the 
 ship ; the second mate of the watch, a 
 young hand, in the hurry of the moment, 
 threw the ship too suddenly up in the 
 wind, a squall struck her at the moment, 
 and the foretopmast and topgallantmast 
 went over the side, dragging the maintop- 
 gallantmast with them. The cry of '' A 
 man overboard!" had hurried the crew 
 on deck, and the crash of the falling spars, 
 and the contradictory orders from the 
 quarter-deck, at first puzzled and confus- 
 ed them ; but the chi^f mate was a cool, 
 active seaman, and the moment he made 
 his appearance, order and silence were 
 restored ; the quarter-boat was instantly 
 lowered, numbers of the men springing 
 forward to volunteer to man her, for the 
 captain was deservedly beloved by his 
 crew ; and the rest of the hands were im- 
 mediately set to work to clear away the 
 wreck. In a few minutes the boat reach- 
 ed us, and we were safely seated in the 
 stern-sheets. 
 
 " Douglas, my gallant fellow," said the 
 captain, shaking me cordially by the hand, 
 " 1 may thank you that I am not food for 
 the fishes by this time. I had just resign- 
 ed myself to my fate, when your voice 
 came over the water to me, like a mes- 
 senger of hope and safety. How can I 
 ever repay you ?" 
 
 " I am sufficiently repaid, Captain 
 Rose, by seeing you beside me ; the 
 
 only way in which you can serve me, is 
 by giving me a lift in the way of promo- 
 tion, when we return home." 
 
 " I will, you may depend upon it," re- 
 plied he ; " and as long as I live, you 
 may apply to me as a firm and faithful 
 friend." 
 
 I was highly gratified by this promise ; 
 for the great object of my ambition for 
 some time past had been to raise myself 
 again from obscurity into something like 
 my former station in life. Next voyage, 
 through the captain's interest with the 
 owners, I was appointed chief mate of the 
 Albion, Captain Rose's ship, for which I 
 was found duly qualified, having employed 
 all my spare hours at sea in acquiring a 
 knowledge of the theory of navigation. 
 Captain Rose was like a brother to me, 
 introducing me to his family and friends 
 as the saver of his life, and making a lion 
 of me in Liverpool. We sailed in com- 
 pany with a large fleet, under convoy of 
 of three frigates and two sloops of war, 
 and had been some time at sea, when a 
 heavy gale of wind came on one afternoon, 
 which completely dispersed the convoy. 
 When it commenced there were nearly 
 two hundred sail in sight ; at the end of 
 two days, we were alone. The Albion 
 was a beautiful vessel of her class, about 
 four hundred tons burden ; an excellent 
 sea-boat. We had a smart, active crew, 
 besides a number of passengers, and were 
 well furnished for defence, if required ; 
 but we were now so near our port that we 
 dreaded little danger. However, it was 
 necessary to be constantly on the alert, 
 for there were many piratical vessels in 
 those seas, which, in spite of the vigilance 
 and activity of H.M. cruisers, were con- 
 stantly on the watch to pounce upon any 
 stray merchantman. Captain Rose was, 
 on the whole, rather pleased at his sepa- 
 ration from the convoy, as there were 
 only one or two other vessels, besides 
 himself, bound to the Havanna, and he 
 would have been obliged to accompany the 
 body of the fleet to Barbadoes. After we 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 207 
 
 had parted from the convoy, we made the 
 best of our way towards Cuba. One 
 night it was almost calm, but with every 
 appearance of a coming breeze ; the moon 
 was nearly at her full, but dark, heavy 
 clouds were drifting quickly over her, 
 which almost entirely hid her from our 
 view, except when, at intervals, she threw 
 from between them a broad flash over the 
 waters, as bright and almost as momenta- 
 ry as lightning gleams. We were crawl- 
 ing slowly along, with all our small can- 
 vas set ; the breeze was ' blowing off the 
 shore, the dark shadow of which lay like 
 a shroud upon the water ; it was nearly 
 eight bells in the first watch ; the captain 
 and several of the passengers were still 
 on deck, enjoying the cool, delightful 
 breeze ; but their suspicious and anxious 
 glances into the dark shadow to windward, 
 seemed to intimate that their conversation 
 over their grog that evening, which had 
 been of the pirates that infested those 
 islands, and Cuba in particular, had 
 awakened their fears and aroused their 
 watchfulness. 
 
 " Hark ! Captain Rose," said I, " what 
 noise is that .?" 
 
 Every face was instantly turned over the 
 weather gunwale, and in breathless si- 
 lence they all listened in the direction to 
 which I pointed. A low, murmuring, 
 rippling sound was heard, and a kind of 
 dull, smothered, creaking noise repeated 
 at short intervals ; nothing was to be seen, 
 however, for all was in deep shadow in 
 that quarter. 
 
 " Talk of the devil, and he'll show his 
 horns, Douglas !" said the captain. " I 
 have not been so long at sea without be- 
 ing able to distinguish the whispering of 
 the smooth water when a sharp keel is 
 slipping through it, or the sound of muf- 
 fled sweeps. There may be mischief 
 there, or there may not; but we'll be 
 prepared for the worst. Get the men 
 quietly to their quarters, put an extra 
 dose of grape into the guns, and have all 
 our tools ready. 
 
 Just at this moment the moonlight 
 broke brightly through the clouds, and 
 showed us a small, black looking schoon- 
 er, slowly crawling out from the shadow 
 of the land. Her decks were apparently 
 crowded with people, and she had a boat 
 towing astern. The men were soon at 
 their quarters— and a fine, active, spirited 
 set of fellows they were — each armed with 
 a cutlass and a brace of pistols, while 
 tomahawks and boarding pikes lay at 
 hand for use if required. The passengers 
 were all likewise provided with muskets, 
 pistols, and cutlasses, and the servants 
 were ready to load spare fire-arms. We 
 mustered about fifty in all ; but there was 
 not a flincher amons: us. 
 
 " Now, my lads," said Captain Rose to 
 his crew, " we must have a brush for it. 
 1 have no doubt those fellows are pirates ; 
 and if once they get footing on this deck, 
 I would not give a farthing for any man's 
 life on board. Be cool and quiet. Don't 
 throw away a shot ; remember that you 
 are fighting for your lives ; I do not doubt 
 your courage, but be cool and steady !" 
 
 In the meantime, the dark hull of 
 the schooner was gradually nearing us. 
 
 " Schooner ahoy !'" shouted Captain 
 Rose. No answer but the sweeps dipped 
 faster into the water, which rippled up 
 beneath her bow. " Schooner, ahoy ! — 
 answer, or I'll fire !" Still no reply ; but, 
 almost immediately, a bright sudden flash 
 burst from her bow, and a shot came 
 whizzing through the mizzen rigging. 
 
 " I thought so," calmly said the cap- 
 tain ; " be cool, my lads ; we must not 
 throw away a shot ; he's hardly within our 
 range yet." The moon broke out for a 
 moment. " Now, my lads, take time, and 
 a steady aim. Give it him !" And flash, 
 flash — bang, bang, went all our six carro- 
 nades. The captain's advice had not been 
 thrown away ; the aim had been cool and 
 deliberate ; we heard the loud crashing of 
 the sweeps as the grape-shot rattled among 
 them, and fell pattering into the water ; 
 and at the same time a yell arose from the 
 
208 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 schooner, as if all the devils in hell were 
 broke loose. The next glimpse of moon- 
 light showed us her foretopmast hanging 
 over the side. 
 
 " Well done, my fine fellows !" shouted 
 Captain Rose ; " bear a hand, and give 
 them another dose. We must keep thern 
 at arm's lens-th as lono; as we can." The 
 schooner had, by this time, braced up on 
 the larboard tack, and was standing the 
 same way as ourselves, so as to bring her 
 broadside to bear upon us ; and seemed to 
 be trying to edge out of the range of our 
 guns, 
 
 " Oh, oh," said our gallant captain, " is 
 that your play, old boy ? You want to 
 pepper us at a distance : that'll never do. 
 Starboard, my boy ! — So ! steady ! Now, 
 my lads, fire away !" — And again our little 
 bark shook with the explosion. The 
 schooner was not slow in returning the 
 compliment. One of her shot lodged in 
 our hull, and another sent the splinters 
 flying out of the boat on the booms. Im- 
 mediately after she fired, she stood away 
 before the wind, and, rounding our stern 
 at a respectful distance, she crawled up on 
 the other side of us, as fast almost as if we 
 had been at anchor, with a wish apparent- 
 ly to cut off our escape in that direction. 
 But he was playing a deeper game. A 
 long, dark, unbroken cloud was passing 
 over the moon, which threw its black sha- 
 dow over the water, and partially conceal- 
 ed the movements of the pirate. When 
 it cleared away again, he was braced sharp 
 up on the larboard tack, standing across 
 our bows, with the intention of raking 
 us. 
 
 " Starboard the helm I — Brace sharp 
 up ! — Bear a hand, my fine fellows !" — 
 And, before she had time to take advan- 
 tage of her position, the Albion again 
 presented her broadside. The flash from 
 the pirate's guns was quickly followed by 
 the report of ours, and we heard imme- 
 diately the loud clattering of blocks on 
 board of her, as if some sail had come 
 down by the run. At this moment I 
 
 thought I heard some strange noise astern, 
 and, running aft, I plainly distinguished 
 the sound of muffled oars, and, immediate- 
 ly after, saw a small dark line upon the 
 water. 
 
 " Aft, here, small-arm men I" shout- 
 ed I. 
 
 " Boat, ahoy ! — Boat, ahoy !" — A loud 
 and wild cheer rose from the boat ; and 
 the men in her, finding that caution would 
 no longer avail them, evidently redoubled 
 their efforts at their oars. 
 
 "• Fire !" shouted the captain, while a 
 blue light he had just ignited threw a pale, 
 unearthly glare over the ship's taffarel, 
 and showed us our new and unexpected 
 enemy. It was the pirate's boat, which 
 she had dropped during the partial ob- 
 scurity I spoke of, intending to board us 
 a-head herself, while the boat's crew at- 
 tacked us astern. It was fortunate that 
 we happened to hear them — three minutes 
 more, and nothing could have saved us. 
 There was a sot of the most ferocious 
 looking desperadoes I had ever seen, arm- 
 ed to the teeth ; and the boat (a large one) 
 was crowded with them. Deadly was the 
 effect of our fire. Four or five of the men 
 at the oars were tumbled over on their 
 faces ; but their places were instantly sup- 
 plied by others, who, with loud yells for 
 revenge, bent desperately to their oars. 
 In a few minutes, the boat shot up under 
 the mizen-chains, while the bullets that 
 were raining down upon them from above, 
 only made them more desperate. The 
 living trampled upon the dying and the 
 dead, in their eagerness to board ; and, in 
 a thick swarm, the blood-thirsty scoundrels 
 came yelling over the bulwarks. A sharp 
 and well-directed fire staggered them for 
 a moment, and sent several of them to 
 their last account. We now threw aside 
 the muskets, for cutlasses and tomahawks. 
 Hand to hand, foot to foot, desperate and 
 deadly was the struggle. 
 
 " Down with them, my lads !" shouted 
 Rose. *' Hew the blood-thii'sty villains 
 to pieces. No quarter ! no quarter ! — 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 209 
 
 shew them such mercy as they would shew 
 you !" 
 
 Short and "bloody was the conflict ; 
 several of the pirates had been killed, the 
 deck was slippery with blood, and the rest 
 were keeping their ground with difficulty. 
 I had a Ions; and severe hand-to-hand 
 fight with one of them. We had each 
 received desperate wounds, when his foot 
 slipped on the bloody deck. I gave him 
 a severe stroke on the head with a toma- 
 hawk, and, after a deadly struggle on the 
 gangway, tumbled him backwards over- 
 board. The moon shone bright out at 
 the moment, and fell full upon his face. 
 Merciful heaven ! — my brain reeled, 1 
 staggered against a gun, and became in- 
 sensible — that face, Mr. Stewart, haunts 
 my dreams to this hour with its ghastly, 
 despairing expression. It was the long- 
 lost Henry's — I was my brother's murder- 
 er ! (Here the poor fellow hid his face in 
 his hands, and groaned with agony. I 
 pitied him from my heart ; but I knew 
 that sorrow such as liis " will not be com- 
 forted " in the moment of its strength ; so 
 I sat in silence beside him, till his first 
 burst of grief was over, and then I endea- 
 vored calmly and coolly to reason with 
 him on the subject, and to persuade him, 
 by all the arguments I could think of, that 
 he had no cause to reproach himself with 
 what had happened. ) 
 
 It is kindly meant of you, Mr. Stewart, 
 (said he mournfully shaking his head) 
 kindly meant, but in vain ! 1 know that 
 I was only acting in self-defence — that it 
 was life against life — that I was perfectly 
 justified, in the eyes of men, in taking the 
 life of him who would have taken mine — 
 but I cannot drive that last despairing- 
 look from my memory. I feel as if my 
 brother's blood were crying out against my 
 soul. O my poor Harry ! would that the 
 blow had fallen on my head instead of 
 thine ! — would that I had had time to tell 
 thee how fondly I loved thee, how freely I 
 forgave thee ! 
 
 But I beg pardon, Mr. Stewart ; — I 
 14 
 
 must go on with my tale. Ten of the 
 pirates were lying dead on the deck, and 
 five of our poor fellows ; the bodies of the 
 former were immediately thrown overboard, 
 and the others wer.e laid side by side 
 amidships, till we could find time to give 
 them Christian burial. Our last lucky 
 shot iad prevented the pirate from carry- 
 ing the other part of his scheme into ef- 
 fect : the moon was now shining out full 
 and clear, and by her light we saw that 
 her throat halyards had been shot away, 
 and her mainsail was flapping over the 
 quarter ; there were hands aloft, reaving 
 new halyards, and busily employed about 
 the mast-head, as if it were crippled. 
 " We have had fighting enough for one 
 bout," said Captain Rose ; " we must run 
 for it now." Our main topgallantmast 
 was hanging over the side, and our sails 
 were riddled with the schooner's shot ; 
 she had evidently been firing high, to 
 disable us, that she might carry us by 
 boarding. We cracked on all the sail we 
 could, served out grog to the men, and 
 lay down at our quarters. We were not 
 suffered to remain at peace long ; the 
 moment the schooner perceived our inten- 
 tion, she edged away after us, and having 
 repaired her damage, set her mains-ail 
 again ; and, as the wind was still light, 
 with the assistance of her remaining sweeps, 
 came crawling up again in-shore of us. 
 " Scoundrels !" muttered the captain, 
 " they will stick to us like leeches as long 
 as there is a drop of blood left on board." 
 
 Again we saw the flash of her gun, and 
 the smoke curling white in the moonbeam. 
 The shot told with fatal effect : our main- 
 topsailyard creaked, bent, and snapped in 
 the slings, falling forward in two pieces. 
 
 The loud cheers of the pirate crew 
 came faintly over the water ; but our brave 
 fellows nothing daunted, responded to 
 them heartily. 
 
 " They have winged us, my lads !" said 
 our gallant captain; "but we will die 
 game at all events." The men answered 
 him with another cheer and swore they 
 
210 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 would go to the bottom rather than yield. 
 We blazed away at the schooner, but in 
 vain ; she had been severely taught to 
 respect us ; our shot fell far short, while 
 she, with her long metal, kept dropping 
 shot after shot into us with deadly preci- 
 sion. We tried to close with her ; but she 
 saw her advantage, and kept it ; all that 
 we could do was to stand steadily on, the 
 men lying down under the shelter of the 
 bulwarks. A faint dull sound now fell 
 upon our ears, like the report of a distant 
 gun. "Thank heaven!" said I, "our 
 guns have spoken to some purpose ; some 
 of the cruisers have taken the alarm." 
 We immediately burnt a blue light, and 
 threw up a couple of rockets. In a few 
 minutes a shout of joy burst from the crew ; 
 a small glimmering star appeared in the 
 distance, which flickered for a moment, 
 and then increased to a strong, steady, 
 slarino- light; at the same time, we heard 
 a second report, much nearer and clearer 
 than before. Alarmed at the near ap- 
 proach of the stranger, which was now 
 distinctly visible, standing towards us 
 under a press of sail, the pirate, determin- 
 ed to have another brush with us, bore 
 up, and closed with us. But we were pre- 
 pared for him ; he was evidently stagger- 
 ed by our warm reception ; and, giving us 
 a parting broadside, hove round, stood in 
 under the dark shadow of the land, and we 
 soon lost sight of him. 
 
 The stranger proved to be H. M. sloop 
 Porcupine. She hove to when she neared 
 us, and sent a boat on board. She had 
 heard the report of our guns, and hasten- 
 ed to the scene of action, just in the very 
 nick of time to save us. The lieutenant 
 complimented the captain and crew on 
 their gallant defence, and hastened on 
 board the sloop again, to make his report. 
 The boat soon returned, with a gang of 
 hands to assist in repairing om* damages ; 
 and, on the evening of the next day, we 
 were safely at anchor. When the excite- 
 ment of the action was over, the pain of 
 my wounds and the agitation of my mind 
 
 brought on a violent attack of fever. 
 During my delirium, the vision of my 
 dying brother was ever before me ; and 
 in my madness I twice made an attempt 
 upon my own life. At length the good- 
 ness of my constitution triumphed over 
 the violence of my "disorder ; but my 
 peace of mind was gone for ever. My 
 worthy friend, the captain, to whom 1 
 confided my story, did everything in his 
 power to rouse me from my sorrow, and 
 to reconcile me to myself ; but in vain. 
 The sight of my brother had recalled the 
 vivid recollection of by-gone scenes, which 
 I had been for years steeling my heart to 
 forget ; my spirit was broken, I became 
 listless and indifferent, and no longer felt 
 any interest in my profession. I did my 
 duty, to be sure ; but it was mechanically 
 — from the force of habit. Captain Rose 
 was ceaseless in his kindness. When, on 
 our return home, I expressed my deter- 
 mination not to go to sea again, he re- 
 presented my conduct during the action, 
 and on other occasions, in such glowing 
 terms, to the owners, that they Settled a 
 small annuity upon me, in consideration 
 of the wounds I had received in their ser- 
 vice. IL was with the deepest regret I 
 took leave of my worthy friend and cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " I can never forget," said he, " that, 
 but for you, my children would have been 
 fatherless, my wife a widow : whenever 
 you need the assistance of a friend, Doug- 
 las, apply to me with as much confidence 
 as to a brother." 
 
 He then offered to evince his regard in 
 a more substantial manner, which I firmly 
 but gratefully declined. I wrote to him 
 afterwards, telling him that I had settled 
 in this neighborhood, and requesting him 
 to make arrangements that my annuity 
 might be made payable to a certain firm in 
 Glasgow. In reply, he wi'ote me a long 
 and affectionate letter. It was the first 
 and last I ever had from him ; he died soon 
 afterwards. It is now five years since 1 
 took up my abode here, and I feel the 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, 
 
 211 
 
 weakness and infirmities of age creeping 
 fast upon me. Oli ! how happily will I lay 
 down the weary load of life !" 
 
 " Douglas," said I, when he had finish- 
 ed his story, " you certainly have had 
 grievous sorrows and trials ; but you have 
 borne them nobly, except in wilfully at- 
 taching the odium of crime to the unfor- 
 tunate circumstances of your brother's 
 death." 
 
 " Would that I could think as you do !" 
 said he. 
 
 We parted ; and four years elapsed be- 
 fore we met again. I had, in the mean- 
 time, commenced practice as surgeon in 
 Glasgow, and my professional avocations 
 kept me too constantly employed to al- 
 low of my leaving the town. At last, 
 after a severe attack of illness, I was 
 recommended to go to the sea-side for a 
 few months ; and my thoughts immedi- 
 ately recurred to my old friend. I took a 
 lodging in Rothesay, and next morning 
 went down to the beach, where I saw the 
 old man just preparing to put oiF. 
 
 " Here I am again, Douglas," said I. 
 " Sir," replied he, looking at me first 
 doubtingly, for illness had greatly reduced 
 me. " Ah ! Mr. Stewart, is that you ? I 
 thought you had forgotten me." 
 
 '' Then you did me injustice, Douglas ; 
 I have often and often regretted that the 
 pressure of business prevented my visiting 
 you again. By the by, I was reminded 
 of you in rather an extraordinary way 
 lately." 
 
 " How was that, sir .?" 
 " On my way down here, a few days 
 since, the steamer touched at Greenock. 
 I was standing on the quay, when a poor 
 fellow, a passenger in a vessel just arrived, 
 fell from the gangway, and was taken up 
 insensible. I immediately bled him ; and, 
 seeing that he appeared to be seriously 
 injured, I determined, as I had no other 
 particular call upon my time, to remain 
 beside him till he recovered. I had him 
 carried to a small lodging in the neighbor- 
 hood, where he soon partially recovered ; 
 
 and, having prescribed for him, I left him, 
 dosiiing that I might be sent for if any 
 change took place. During the night he 
 had a violent attack of fever. I was sent 
 for : when I arrived, I found him deliri- 
 ous ; he was raving about Cuba, and ships, 
 and pirates, and fifty other things that 
 immediately recalled you to my remem- 
 brance. When he came to his senses 
 
 agam 
 
 Doctor ! tell me the truth,' said he : 
 ^ am I not dying .?' 
 
 " ' No,' replied I ; ' your present symp- 
 toms are favorable ; everything depends 
 upon your keeping your mind and body 
 quiet.' 
 
 " ' Quiet mind !' muttered he, with a 
 bitter smile on his countenance. ^ It is 
 not that I fear death, doctor; I think I 
 could willingly depart in peace, if I had 
 but been allowed time to find the person 
 whom I came to Scotland in search of.' 
 " ' And who is that .?' 
 " 'A fisherman at Rothesay.' 
 " He mentioned the name ; but at this 
 moment I forget it. Let me see — it was 
 — ay, it was Ponsonby — Charles Pon- 
 sonby.' 
 
 Douglas started, and turned pale. 
 " Ponsonby !" exclaimed he ; " that 
 was jiiy name, my father's name ! Who 
 can he be ? Perhaps some old shipmate 
 of poor Harry's. I will go directly and 
 see him." And he tui^ned as if to de- 
 part. 
 
 " Gently, gently, my friend," said I, 
 detaining him ; '' I must go with you. 
 When I left the poor fellow under the 
 charge of a medical man at Greenock, he 
 was greatly better ; but he had received 
 some severe internal injury, and he can- 
 not live long. A sudden surprise might 
 hasten his death. I must go with you to 
 prevent accidents." 
 
 We went on board the next steamer 
 that started, and in two hours were land- 
 ed at Greenock. I led the way to the 
 small lodging in which I had left my pa- 
 tient ; and leaving Douglas at the door, 
 
212 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 you may come 
 noise as possi- 
 
 went in to inquire into the state of the 
 sufferer's health, and to prepare him for 
 his visitor. I found him asleep ; but his 
 was not the slumber that refreshes — the 
 restless and unquiet spirit within was dis- 
 turbing the rest of the fevered and fa- 
 tigued body. His flushed cheek lay upon 
 one arm, while his other was every now 
 and then convulsively raised above his 
 head, and his lips moved with indistinct 
 mutterings. 
 
 " He is asleep," said I to Douglas ; 
 "we must wait till he awakens." 
 
 " Oh, let me look at him," said he ; 
 *' it can do no harm. He must be an old 
 shipmate of poor Harry's ; perhaps he 
 has some memento of him for me." 
 
 "Very well," said I; " 
 in ; but make as little 
 ble." 
 
 We walked gently up to the bed ; 
 Douglas looked earnestly at the sleeper, 
 and, suddenly raising his clasped hands, 
 he exclaimed — 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! it is Henry him- 
 self!" 
 
 The poor patient started, with a wild 
 and fevered look. 
 
 *' Who called me ? I thought I heard 
 Charles's voice ! Where am I ? Give 
 way in the boat ! — oh, spare me, spare 
 me, Charles ! — Fire ! — Down with them ! 
 Hurra!" — And waving his hands above 
 his head, he sank down again on his bed, 
 exhausted. 
 
 He soon fell into a deep slumber, which 
 lasted for some hours. I was sitting by 
 his bedside when he awoke. 
 
 " How do you feel now .^" said I. 
 " O doctor ! I am dying. I have been 
 dreamins; : I thought I heard the voice of 
 one 1 have deeply injured — nay, I dreamt 
 I saw him ; but changed, how changed ! 
 — and 1 — I have been the cause of it." 
 
 Here he was interrupted by the smo- 
 thered sobs of poor Douglas, or Charles, 
 as I now must call him. 
 
 " Who is that r there is somebody else 
 in the room," said he ; and. drawing the 
 
 curtain aside, he saw his brother. " Then 
 it was no dream ! Charles !" and, 
 turning round, he buried his face in the 
 pillow. Douglas sprang forward, and, 
 throwing himself on the bed, gave way to 
 a violent burst of emotion. 
 
 " Henry I dear Henry ! look at me — it 
 is your brother, Henry !" 
 
 The dying man groaned. " I cannot 
 look you in the face, Charles," said he, 
 ^' bill you say you have forgiven me." 
 
 "Forgiven yon!" replied the other; 
 " bless you ! bless you, Henry ! if you 
 did but know the load of remorse that the 
 sight of you has relieved me from ! Thank 
 Heaven, I was not your murderer !" 
 
 " And can you forget the past, Charles .^" 
 said Henry. " Do not my ears deceive 
 me ? Do you really forgive me }^^ 
 
 " Freely, fully, from my heart !" was 
 the reply ; " the joy of meeting you 
 again, even thus, repays me for all 1 have 
 suffered." 
 
 " Charles !" again ejaculated Henry, 
 " you were always generous and forgiv- 
 ing ; but this is more than I expected 
 from you." 
 
 I was now going to leave the room ; 
 but my patient, noticing my intention, 
 begged me to remain. 
 
 " Stay, doctor, and listen to my confes- 
 sion ; concealment is no longer necessary, 
 for I feel that the hand of death is upon 
 me, and that, in a few short hours, my ca- 
 reer of sin, and shame, and sorrow, will 
 be at an end." 
 
 " My poor fellow," said I, " I have 
 heard the first part of your story from 
 your brother ; you had better defer the 
 remainder till you have recovered from 
 your present agitation ; I will come again 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow, sir !" said he ; " where 
 may I be before to-morrow .' Oh, let me 
 speak now, while time and strength are 
 allowed. It will do me good, sii* ; it will 
 relieve my mind, and be a comfort to my 
 troubled spirit.'' 
 
 Feeling that he was right, I seated 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 213 
 
 myself, while lie thus commenced his 
 tale : — 
 
 " You remember, Charles, our last sad 
 parting — when we stood " 
 
 " Mention it not, Harry !" groaned his 
 brother — " there is agony in the recollec- 
 tion. Poor Julia !" 
 
 " When I left you, I was maddened 
 with sorrow and remorse ; all night long 1 
 wandered about in a state of distraction, 
 and, when morning dawned, I fell down 
 by the roadside, overcome with fatigue 
 and misery. How long I lay I know 
 not ; when I awoke, the sun was high in 
 the heaven ; and, during one brief mo- 
 ment of forgetfulness, 1 rejoiced in his 
 briorhtness. Alas ! it was but for a mo- 
 mcnt ; my guilty love, my treachery, my 
 loss, all flashed upon my mind at once, 
 and I started to my feet, and hurried mad- 
 ly onwards, as if I hoped, by the rapidity 
 of my movements, to escape from my own 
 thoughts. Hunger at last compelled me 
 to enter a small public house, where I fell 
 in with a poor sailor who was on his way to 
 Liverpool in search of a ship. The sight 
 of this man turned my thoughts into ano- 
 ther channel. ' Double-eyed traitor, that 
 I am,' muttered I, ' England is no longer 
 a home for me. She, for whose love I 
 broke a father's heart, and betrayed a 
 brother's confidence, has been torn from 
 me ; and what more have I to live for 
 here ?' My mind was made up. 
 
 " ' My lad,' said I to the sailor, ' if you 
 have no objection, we will travel together ; 
 I am bound to Liverpool m3"self.' 
 
 " ' With all my heart,' said he ; ' I like 
 to sail in company.' 
 
 " I engaged to work my passage out be- 
 fore the mast, in a ship bound to Jamai- 
 ca, intending to turn my education to 
 some account there if possible, or, at all 
 events, to remain there as long as my mo- 
 ney lasted. When 1 saw the shores of my 
 native land sink in the distance, I felt that 
 I was a forlorn ?.,nd miserable outcast ; 
 that the last link was severed that bound 
 me to existence. A dark change came 
 
 over me ; a spirit of desperation and 
 reckless indifference ; a longing wish to 
 end my miseries at once. I strove a- 
 gainst the evil spirit ; and for a while suc- 
 ceeded. On our arrival at Kingston, I 
 endeavored in vain to obtain employment ; 
 my stock of money was fast decreasing ; 
 and when that was gone, where was I to 
 turn for more ? Poverty and wretched- 
 ness threatened me from without ; re- 
 morse was busy within. 'Why should I 
 bear this weary load of life P said I, as I 
 madly paced the shore, ' when one bold 
 plunge would bury it for ever .?' 
 
 " I threw myself headlong into the wa- 
 ter ; and, though an excellent swimmer, I 
 resolutely kept my face beneath the sur- 
 face ; yes ! with desperate determination, 
 I strove to force myself into the presence 
 of that dread Being whom I had so 
 grievously offended. When I came to 
 my senses again, I was lying on a part of 
 the beach 1 was unacquainted with ; a 
 tall, handsome, dark-featured young man 
 was bending over me, and, within a few 
 yards of where I lay, a small light boat 
 was drawn tip on the shore. 
 
 " ' So you have opened your eyes at 
 last, my friend,' said the man ; ' you have 
 had a narrow squeak for it. When I 
 dragged you out of the water like a 
 drowned rat, I thought all was over with 
 you. Have you as many lives as a cat, 
 that you can afford to throw away one in 
 such a foolish manner .^' 
 
 " ' Life ! I am sick of it,' answered L 
 
 " ' Well,' said he, ' if that is the case, 
 why not throw it away like a man, among 
 men ?' Come with me, and I will furnish 
 you with active employment to drive the 
 devil out of your mind. But here, before 
 we start, take some of the cordial to cheer 
 you.' 
 
 " I was chilled and exhausted, and 
 took a hearty draught. I felt its warmth 
 steal through my frame — it mounted to 
 my brain — I laughed aloud ; I felt that I 
 was equal to any act of desperation, 
 Alas ! 1 little knew the snare I was fall- 
 
214 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ino- into. We launched the boat and 
 sprang into it ; and my companion, seiz- 
 ing the oars, pulled rapidly along the 
 beach. After rowing some distance, we 
 saw a light glimmering amid the bushes ; 
 it was now nearly dusk ; my companion 
 lay on his oars, and gave a long, low, pe- 
 culiar whistle, which was immediately an- 
 swered. He then ran the boat ashore ; 
 two men sprang in, who relieved him at 
 the oars ; and we again held on our way. 
 There was a great deal of conversation 
 carried on in a low tone ; and from what 
 I heard of it, half tipsy as I was, I infer- 
 red that my companion, whom the other 
 men addressed with great respect, was a 
 naval officer on some secret duty. Just 
 as we were crossing the mouth of a nar- 
 row creek, a light four-oared gig dashed 
 out after us, a voice hailed us in English 
 to lie on our oars, and, when we still held 
 on our course, a musket ball whizzed over 
 us, to enforce obedience. 
 
 "'The piratical rascals!' exclaimed 
 the young man ; ' if they lay hold of us, 
 we are all dead men. Here !' continued 
 he, seizing a musket, which lay in the 
 °tern sheets, and giving me another, 'fire, 
 for your life !' 
 
 " I was half mad with fever, and the 
 effects of my late draught; and, under 
 the persuasion that our lives were in dan- 
 ger, 1 fired. The bowman of the gig fell, 
 and we rapidly left her. We came at 
 jast to a narrow lagune, close to the low 
 shore of which lay a small schooner, at 
 anchor with sails bent, and every prepara- 
 tion for a start. 
 
 " ' Welcome on board the little Spit- 
 fire, my man !' said the young stranger; 
 ' we want hands — will you ship .?' 
 
 " ' What colors do you sail under .^' 
 replied I. 
 
 " ' Oh, not particular to a shade,' said 
 he ; ' any that happens to suit us for the 
 time being : black is rather a favorite.' 
 
 " ' Black !' exclaimed I ; ' I thought 
 you were king's men. I won't go with 
 you.' 
 
 '^ ' It is too late, my lad — go you 
 must ! Besides, there is no safety for 
 you on shore now ; you shot one of the 
 crew of the cruiser's gig, and they will 
 have lifa for life, depend upon it.' 
 
 " The whole horror of my situation 
 now burst upon me. I was in a fearful 
 strait; but I made up my mind at once, 
 to deceive the pirates, by appearing to be 
 contented with my situation, and to take 
 advantage of the first opportunity that 
 presented itself to escape. 
 
 " ' Well,' said I, ' if that's the case, I 
 had better die fighting bravely like a man, 
 than hang like a dog from the yard-arm 
 of a man-of-war.' 
 
 " ' Bravely said, my hearty !' replied 
 the young leader ; ' but we must be mov- 
 ing — the blue jackets will be after us ; 
 that shot of yours will bring the whole 
 hornet's nest about our ears.' 
 
 " We got underway ; and, after round- 
 ing the east end of Jamaica, we stood a- 
 way for the Cuba shore. The very first 
 time we came to an anchor, I made an at- 
 tempt to escape ; I had saved part of my 
 provisions for some days before, and con- 
 cealed it in readiness to take with me. 
 We were lying close to the shore, and the 
 darkness of the night would, I thought, 
 conceal my movements ; 1 was just slip- 
 ping over the schooner's side, to swim 
 ashore, when I felt a touch upon my 
 shoulder, and, turning round, a dark lan- 
 tern flashed in my face, and I saw the 
 young pirate standing beside me. He 
 held a cocked pistol to my head. ' One 
 touch of this trigger,' said he, ' and you 
 would require no more looking after. My 
 eye has been upon you all along ; you 
 cannot escape me ; do not attempt it 
 again — the consequences may be fatal.' 
 
 " From that hour I was aware that I 
 was constantly and narrowly watched. 
 Except in the one instance of tlie gig's 
 man, whom I had fired at under a delu- 
 sion, it was my good fortune as yet to 
 have escaped imbruing my hands in blood. 
 During the action with the Albion, I waa 
 
 II. 
 
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. 
 
 215 
 
 sent in the boat under the particular 
 charge of the mate. ' Keep your eye on 
 this fellow,' said the captain ; ' if he 
 flinches for a moment, blow his brains out 
 instantly ; we must glue him to us with 
 blood. I will keep her in play till you 
 creep alongside ; and, once on board, cut 
 every one down before you — give no 
 quarter. ' 
 
 " My blood ran cold at this horrible 
 order, and I determined upon doing all in 
 my power to counteract its execution. I 
 was delighted when you discovered our 
 approach, and the blue light flashed from 
 your stern ; for I dreaded the scene of 
 massacre that must have ensued, if we had 
 boarded you unawares. I sprang on deck 
 with the rest, in hopes that I might be 
 able to prevent some bloodshed ; but, 
 when I was violently attacked, my pas- 
 sions were aroused, and I fought despe- 
 rately for my life. Just as you tumbled 
 me over the gangway, the gleam of moon- 
 shine showed me your face. I recognized 
 you immediately ; and, when I rose to 
 the surface of the water again after my 
 plunge, I blessed Heaven that I had been 
 spared the guilt of murder. I reached 
 the boat, which was still hanging under 
 your quarter, cut the painter, and, in the 
 confusion, escaped unnoticed. I immedi- 
 ately made for the shore ; and, after 
 many hair-breadth escapes from my old 
 associates, I volunteered on board one of 
 the cruisers on the Jamaica station. At 
 length she returned home, the crew were 
 paid off, and I determined to seek you 
 
 out. On inquiring at the office of the 
 owners of the Albion, in Liverpool, they 
 told me that the late chief mate had set- 
 tled, some years before, in the neighbor- 
 hood of Rothesay, in the Isle of Bute, 
 and was still alive. Thank Heaven ! I 
 have found you at last ! I should like to 
 live, Charles, to prove to you my sorrow 
 and repentance for the past ; but as Hea- 
 ven has willed it otherwise, the blessed 
 assurance of your forgiveness will lighten 
 death of half its terrors." 
 
 The poor fellow breathed his last a few 
 days afterwards. Douglas mourned long 
 and deeply for his brother's death ; but, 
 after time had soothed his grief, he be- 
 came quite an altered man. His mind 
 and spirits recovered their elasticity, 
 after the load which had so long weighed 
 them down, was removed. He did not 
 resume his own name ; but lived many 
 years afterwards, contented and happy, 
 in the humble station of a fisherman ; and 
 it was not till after his death that his old 
 companions discovered how justly the 
 name of " Gentleman Douglas " had been 
 applied to him. His tombstone bore the 
 simple inscription, " Charles Douglas 
 Ponsonby, eldest son of the late Reverend 
 T. Ponsonby." 
 
 I often wander, in the calm summer 
 evenings, to the quiet churchyard, and 
 return a sadder, but, I hope, a better 
 man, after meditating upon the troublous, 
 and adventurous life, and peaceful and 
 Christian death of the Rothesay Fish- 
 erman. 
 
216 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 A VAGAEY OF FORTUNE. 
 
 We claim some credit for the novelty and 
 originality of the following remarks, name- 
 ly, that there frequently occur, in real life, 
 incidents much more singular than any 
 that the most fertile imagination ever sup- 
 plied to the pages of romance. We, how- 
 ever, claim still more credit, and we sus- 
 pect the reader will think with a trifle 
 more reason, for the following illustration 
 of the truth of this observation. 
 
 On the west side of the bay of Machri- 
 more, on the south side of Cantyre, there 
 stands a small farm house, at the distance 
 of about a quarter of a mile from the 
 beach. 
 
 In the year 1774, this house, and farm 
 adjoining, was tenanted by a man of the 
 name of Duncan M'Allister and his wife. 
 Duncan was a poor but decent and in- 
 dustrious man, much respected in the 
 country for his integrity, and for his quiet 
 and civil demeanor. 
 
 Duncan, however, had a severe struggle 
 with the world. His farm was a very 
 small and a very wretched one ; while his 
 rent was neither the one nor the other. 
 It was, in short, with great difficulty that 
 Duncan could make a living of it, even 
 with all the assistance he could obtain 
 from a wife not less industrious than him- 
 self. But Duncan looked confidently for- 
 ward to better days, and not without 
 reason. Four years previous to the 
 period at which our story commences, his 
 son, an only child — a young man of steady 
 habits and excellent disposition — had gone 
 out to the East Indies, in the humble ca- 
 pacity of a gentleman's servant, had there 
 fallen into some little way of business, in 
 which he was doing so well that he had 
 been enabled to remit to his parents 
 twenty pounds per annum, for the last 
 three years of the period above-named. 
 
 It was, then, to this source — to the du- 
 teous dispositions of his son — that Duncan 
 trusted for an improvement of his own 
 condition, and with each succeeding year 
 did his trust in this son's prosperity and 
 filial affection become more and more con- 
 fiding ; for, with each succeeding year, 
 came an addition of ten pounds to the 
 preceding year's remittance, with an as- 
 surance that this latter should always be 
 proportioned — in other words, go on in- 
 creasing with the success of the donor. 
 And, accordingly, for several years this 
 was the case, till the sum, from twenty 
 had risen to ninety pounds. 
 
 With his last remittance, Duncan's son, 
 whose name was John, informed his pa- 
 rents that he was getting on so rapidly 
 and prosperously, that he hoped, in a few 
 years, to be able to return to his own 
 country an independent man. 
 
 This was a communication but little cal- 
 culated to prepare his parents for the 
 following letter which they received from 
 him about nine months afterwards. It 
 was dated from Bhurtpore. 
 
 " After all my boasting, my dear fa- 
 ther," so ran the letter in question, 
 " what will be your grief and amazement 
 to learn that I am, at tliis moment, not 
 worth a single rupee — that I am, in short, 
 a ruined man. 
 
 '' A scoundrel of the name of Novorgod 
 — Christian Novorgod — a Swede, with 
 whom I entered into partnership, has 
 plundered me of all 1 had. 
 
 " Having left this fellow — one of the 
 smoothest-tongued, most plausible, and 
 most deceptive rascals I ever met with — 
 in charge of my store at Bhurtpore, while 
 I was on a trafficking expedition into the 
 interior, in quest of gums and ivory, ho 
 
A VAGARY OF FORTUNE. 
 
 217 
 
 took advantage of my absence, wliich ex- 
 tended to nearly two months, to sell off all 
 my goods at whatever they would bring, 
 jDOcketed the monoy, and decamped. 
 
 " I have since understood that the vil- 
 lain has left this quarter of the world, and 
 gone to Egypt. But, wherever he has 
 gone to, I have little chance of ever fall- 
 ing in with him, and still less of recovering 
 any part of my property. That is gone 
 beyond all redemption. 
 
 " The loss I have sustained by this 
 scoundrel I cannot estimate at less than 
 from £9,000 to £10,000. 
 
 '•• This is a severe blow, my dear father ; 
 but its most distressing consequence, in 
 my view of it, is its depriving me of the 
 power of further assisting you. This is 
 what pains me most. 
 
 " It grieves me to add, that the agony 
 and anxiety of mind to which this cruel 
 misfortune has subjected me, has thrown 
 me into such a weakly state of health, that 
 I find myself every day becoming less and 
 less able to struggle against the enervating 
 influences of the climate of this country, 
 and have, therefore, determined on re- 
 turning home, for my prospects here are 
 entirely ruined. 
 
 " In about eighteen months, therefore, 
 from this date, you may expect to see me, 
 if God shall spare me. But, O dear 
 father, how different our circumstances 
 will be from what I once anticipated. I 
 expected to come home to you a rich 
 man ; in place of that, I shall come to you 
 as poor as 1 left you." &c., &c., &c. 
 
 We will not detain the reader by any 
 attempt at describing the effect of this 
 letter on poor old M'Allister and his wife, 
 but proceed with our story. 
 
 It was about fifteen months after this, 
 that M'Allister received a letter from the 
 minister of the parish of , in Ayr- 
 shire, requesting him to come instantly to 
 his manse, where he would hear of some- 
 thing which greatly concerned him. He 
 complied. In the afternoon of the second 
 
 day after, he was seated in the parlor of 
 the clergyman. 
 
 " You have a son in the East Indies .'"' 
 said the clergyman. 
 
 " I have !" was the reply of the former. 
 " What of him ?" he added anxiously. 
 
 " You shall hear," said the minister. 
 
 " Some time ago the ship was 
 
 seen off our coast in great distress. The 
 people hastened down to the shore to ren- 
 der what little assistance they could to 
 the unfortunate crew when the catastrophe, 
 which they foresaw, should have happened. 
 The ill-fated vessel struck on, and deeply 
 lodged herself in, the quicksands. Enor- 
 mous seas, like huge living things, now 
 threw themselves in rapid succession on 
 and over the devoted vessel, burying her 
 in their bosoms, and bearing everything 
 before them in their onward career. No- 
 thing that had life in it, could now exist 
 for an instant on board that unfortunate 
 ship, even suppose it could have kept its 
 hold and footing on her deck — which were 
 impossible — as, from her sinking sideways 
 in the sand, the former sloped at an angle 
 of nearly forty-five degrees. 
 
 " Anxious, most anxious were the peo- 
 ple to render the miserable sufferers as- 
 sistance ; but they could do little. They 
 had no boat ; and, indeed, no boat could 
 have lived a moment in the tremendous 
 surf that was then breaking on the shore. 
 Nothing could they do, then, but watch 
 on the beach, to see whether the waves 
 would bring any of the ill-fated crew to 
 the shore in whom there might still be life. 
 But they looked long in vain for any such 
 occurrence as this. The waves would give 
 up none of their victims. At length, how- 
 ever, they saw a human head, peering, 
 now and then, above the white foam of the 
 sea, and advancing and receding with the 
 approaching and retiring waves. 
 
 " Satisfied, after a moment's observa- 
 tion, that the object they saw was indeed 
 the head of a human being, some bold 
 fellow, watching an opportunity, rushed 
 into the surf, plunged his arm into the 
 
218 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 water close by the floating object, caught 
 the breast of a man's coat, and, by an ex- 
 ertion of superhuman strength, the result 
 of the excitement of the moment, dragged 
 him to the shore. He was brought to my 
 manse. The body exhibited no percep- 
 tible signs of life ; but, on tearing open 
 the waistcoat, and placing my hand on the 
 heart, I felt it feebly beating. I had soon 
 the satisfaction of seeing success attend 
 our efforts. The unfortunate sufferer be- 
 gan to breathe audibly, though, for a time, 
 by irregular and convulsive respirations. 
 Satisfied that he was now in a fair way of 
 recovery, I, after leaving some instruc- 
 tions with my wife as to the management 
 of her patient during my absence, hastened 
 again to the beach to see whether I could 
 not find any other object on which to ex- 
 ercise my humanity. But there were none ; 
 not one. All, all had perished ; and, of 
 the unfortunate vessel herself, no trace 
 remained but in the loose spars and rig- 
 ging with which the shore was strewed. 
 The hull had entirely disappeared. 
 
 " On returning home, I found my pa- 
 tient, though still in a feeble and exhausted 
 state, so far recovered as to be sitting in 
 an arm-chair before the fire, and able to 
 give some account of himself. This ac- 
 count stated that he was a foreigner, 
 which, indeed, his language at once disco- 
 vered, although he spoke English with 
 tolerable fluency. That he was a passen- 
 ger in the ship which had just been 
 wrecked, and that he was on his way to 
 England on a mercantile speculation. 
 This was the substance of all that the 
 stranger chose to communicate, and no- 
 thins; farther regarding; him was asked. 
 
 " For several days, I and my wife show- 
 ed the unfortunate man every attention in 
 our power. We tended him day and 
 night; for, during all this time, he con- 
 tinued in a very weakly condition, and, so 
 far from any improvement taking place 
 beyond the point of convalescence he had 
 attained immediately after his resuscita- 
 tion, he seemed to be retrograding — to be 
 
 sinking daily under the exhaustion which 
 his late accident had induced. He became 
 feverish, and his slumbers were disturbed, 
 apparently, by frightful dreams ; the last 
 a natural consequence, as his benefactors 
 thought, of the perils he had just escaped. 
 But we could not help perceiving at the 
 same time, that the unconnected sentences 
 he muttered during his sleep, oftener bore 
 reference to other matters than his ship- 
 wreck, although this last was occasionally 
 alluded to, in the ravings of the sufferer. 
 
 " What these other matters were, how- 
 ever, neither I nor my wife could at all 
 make out ; but it was evident they were 
 things that pressed heavily on the mind of 
 the unfortunate man. In the meantime, 
 he gradually became weaker and weaker, 
 until it was evident that he had not long 
 to live. Becoming sensible of this him- 
 self, the dying man asked if there was any 
 clergyman in the neighborhood who would 
 visit him. 
 
 '' 1 told him, what he had not yet been 
 informed of, that I was a clergyman. 
 
 " ' I would wish,' said he, ^ to speak one 
 private word with you, sir, before you shall 
 speak to me on religious subjects.' 
 
 '' ' Surely, surely, my good friend,' re- 
 plied I. 
 
 '' ' Sit down close by me, my good sir,' 
 said the dying man, ' and I will tell you 
 something that presses heavily on my 
 mind.' 
 
 *' I having taken a seat as desired, the 
 sufferer went on : 
 
 " ' About two years ago, I was a mer- 
 chant in Bhurtpore, in the East Indies. I 
 was in partnership with a Scotchman of 
 the name of MWUister. His father lives 
 somewhere about Can tyre. We were do- 
 ing very well, and were making money 
 fast, when the devil put it into my head to 
 turn scoundrel. When my partner was 
 up the country, I sold off all the goods, 
 put the money in my pocket, and ran 
 away, and ruined my poor partner. Now, 
 my good sir, this is the thing that troubles 
 mo ; that makes me fear to'die.' 
 
THE MISER OF NEWABBEY. 
 
 219 
 
 " ' It was, indeed,' said I, ' a very re- 
 prehensible act ; but your present contri- 
 tion is some atonement ; and, I trust, will 
 procure you the forgiveness of a merciful 
 and beneficent God.' 
 
 " ' I do trust so,' replied the dying 
 man ; ^ but would add restitution to con- 
 trition. Now, would you, my dear sir, 
 help me in this good work .'' I have the 
 means, and I would place them in your 
 hands, to be given to the lawful owner 
 when I am dead, if you can find him out.' 
 
 " Having said this, the unhappy man 
 took a pocket-book from beneath his pil- 
 low, and from thence produced three bills 
 of exchange for £3,000 each, and put 
 them into my hands. 
 
 " The pledge was useless without wri- 
 ting, and I instantly got a testament pre- 
 pared. " Some neighbors were called in to 
 attest it ; and, iu the midst of my pray- 
 ers, he died. Here is the will, sir ; it is 
 in favor of your son, with the bills enclos- 
 ed in it. He recollected the full name of 
 his partner's father, and it was thus that I 
 discovered you. Do you recollect the 
 name of your son's partner .?" 
 
 Novorgod," 
 
 replied the 
 
 " Christian 
 farmer. 
 
 " The same," responded the clergyman. 
 " Then all is right, and as it should be. 
 By this," he continued, " I may reclaim a 
 host of Atheists. It is thus that our Great 
 Father justifies his ways, even at intervals 
 of centuries ; that, amidst the darkness 
 raised by the clouds of men's doubts, he 
 may hold forth a shining light, whose ra- 
 diations may reach far lands and far times, 
 to comfort the faithful and reclaim the 
 wicked." 
 
 The farmer, who had, as yet, been 
 scarcely able to open his mouth, stood en- 
 veloped in wonder, scarcely believing that 
 he was beyond the precincts of the land of 
 dreams. 
 
 In about three months after, Mr. M'Al- 
 lister's son arrived from the East Indies. 
 He entered his father's house, as he be- 
 lieved, a beggar, heartless and sorrowful. 
 Need we describe his joy when the cir- 
 cumstance we have just related came to 
 his knowledsje ? We need not. The 
 reader's conception of it will be sufficiently 
 > vivid without it. 
 
 THE MISER OF NEWABBEY. 
 
 In the pretty little village of Newabbey, in 
 the south of Scotland, there lived one of 
 those individuals which society sometimes 
 casts up, as the sea does its secret monsters, 
 formed apparently for no other purpose 
 than to show how curiously opeross nature 
 can be in her productions, though man- 
 kind, ever in search for final causes, may 
 attempt to wrest out of their eccentricities 
 some moral to suit their self-love, and, by 
 producing a contrast, elevate themselves 
 in the scale of moral or physical beings. 
 That strange person, Cuthbert Grandison 
 — or, as he was generally termed. Cubby 
 Grindstane, by the corruptive ingenuity 
 
 of his neighbors — occupied a small mud 
 cottage near the centre of the village we 
 have mentioned. He was considerably 
 advanced in age, and, having come to 
 Newabbey at a late period of his life, the 
 people in that part of the country knew 
 little of his history — a circumstance they 
 regretted in proportion to the interest ex- 
 cited by the strange habits of the indi- 
 vidual. He was in person a little man ; 
 extremely spare ; with a sharp, keen, hun- 
 gry look ; a grey hawk's eye, which, like 
 the cat's, seemed to enjoy the best vision 
 collaterally, for the pupil was almost al- 
 ways at the junction of the eyelids. On 
 
220 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 his back there was a large hump, which, 
 having the only rotundity which his spare 
 body presented, gave him the appearance 
 of a skeleton carrying a lump of beef; 
 and, as his mode of walking was quick and 
 hurried, a quaint fancy could not resist 
 the additional suggestion, that he was run- 
 ning home with it in order to satisfy the 
 hunger that shone through his fleshless 
 form. The extraordinary appearance of 
 such a wild and grotesque-looking indi- 
 vidual, in so small a village, could not fail 
 to produce the usual speculation among 
 the high-mutched gossips, who, having in 
 vain made inquiries and exerted their wits 
 as to his origin, directed their attention to 
 his habits, and especially to the mode in 
 which he earned his livelihood — for no 
 one could say he was ever seen to beg. 
 But they were not much more successful 
 in these secondary inquiries and investiga- 
 tions ; because (although it was certain 
 that he had a signboard, exhibiting the 
 characters, " Cuthbert Grandison, Cob- 
 ]oler " — an unusual and somewhat affected 
 and gratuitous depreciation of the votary of 
 St. Crispin — and sometimes sat at his small 
 window, perforating soles with his awl, 
 and filling up the holes with " tackets"), 
 no one in the village employed him, and 
 he never condescended to ask any one for 
 work. If his operations thus afforded no 
 proper clue to his means of life, his con- 
 versation was, if possible, still more ste- 
 rile ; for, in place of associating with the 
 other " snabs " of the village, or joining 
 the quidnuncs who assembled in Widow 
 Cruikshanks's, to drink beer and " twine 
 political arguments " — a much harder la- 
 bor than their day's work, though they 
 thought it a recreation — he locked him- 
 self, and another individual, now to be 
 mentioned, into the house at an early hour 
 of the evening, and refused to open it 
 again to however urgent a visitor. 
 
 The other individual who lived in Culh- 
 bert's house, was no other than a daugh- 
 ter, about eighteen years of age, called 
 Jean, as unlike her grotesque and myste- 
 
 rious parent as any of God's creatures 
 could be ; though every effort was exerted, 
 on his part, to make her as silent and in- 
 communicative as himself. She appeared 
 to have received no education ; her dress 
 was of the most wretched kind ; and it 
 was even alleged by the neighbors, whose 
 espionage extended even to the calculation 
 of the quantity of meal and milk pur- 
 chased for the support of the father and 
 the daughter, that she did not get suffi- 
 cient food. These circumstances regard- 
 ing the girl were the more readily remark- 
 ed, that, as all admitted, Jean, or, as she 
 was familiarly called, Jeanie Grandison, 
 would, if she had been treated like other 
 individuals of her age, have excelled the 
 greater number of young women of the 
 village, not only in personal appearance, 
 but in the qualities of her mind and heart. 
 She apparently stood in great awe of her 
 strange parent, and uniformly rejected all 
 solicitations, on the part of the villagers, 
 to join them in their sports, or partake of 
 their little entertainments. The story of 
 the mysterious treatment to which she was 
 subjected, excited the sympathies of the 
 neighbors ; and her own amiable manners 
 and meek deportment, exhibiting the in- 
 dications of a crushed spirit, riveted the 
 regard which had been first elicited by 
 her apparent misfortunes. 
 
 The studied seclubion which Grindstane 
 observed, and seemed determined to vin- 
 dicate against all attempts on the part of 
 the neio-hbors to " draw him out," render- 
 ed it difficult to obtain any insight into the 
 domestic economy of his strange domicile ; 
 and accident, at last, brought about what 
 might otherwise not have been easily ac- 
 complished. It was observed that, for a 
 considerable time, his daughter had been 
 ailing. She made no complaints to any 
 one ; but the quick eye of sympathy soon 
 discovered what was apparently attempted 
 to be concealed. The wife of John Mo- 
 nilaws, a grocer and meal-dealer, from 
 whom Jeanie bought the small portion of 
 provisions her father required, observed 
 
THE MISER OF NEWABBEY. 
 
 221 
 
 and noticed the cliano;e that had taken 
 place upon her, and urged her to reveal 
 her complaint, and apply to the surgeon 
 of the village for relief. She smiled sor- 
 rowfully at the exhibition of a sympathy 
 to which she was so much a stranger, and 
 which she was not permitted to avail her- 
 self of; thanked Mrs. Monilaws for her 
 kind intentions ; and assured her she was 
 not much out of her usual condition of 
 health. Two days afterwards, the good 
 dame was astonished by the grotescjue ap- 
 pearance of the mysterious Cubby himself, 
 standing by the side of her counter. It 
 was seldom he was to be seen, far less 
 spoken to ; and, as she looked on the man 
 whom report had invested with attributes 
 of an unusual kind, a shiver came over 
 her, which the presence of her husband, 
 who, having seen Cubby enter the shop, 
 followed him from mere curiosity, was re- 
 quired to counteract. 
 
 •' I want to buy some bread," said he, 
 slowly. 
 
 " What kind.^" said Mrs. Monilaws. 
 
 " A kind I hae aften asked Jeanie to 
 get," replied he ; " but my een are never 
 blessed wi' the sight o't." 
 
 " Ye may hae't, if we hae't, Cuthbert 
 Grindstane," said John. 
 
 " Hae ye ony auld weathered bread," 
 said he, " that has seen the sun for a week, 
 and fules winna buy frae ye .'^" 
 
 " Ay hae we," replied the mistress — 
 " owre muckle o' that. There's some our 
 John is to boil up for the pigs. It's 
 moulded as green as turf-sod. But ye 
 hae nae pigs, Cuthbert.'"' 
 
 " Pigs anew — pigs anew," replied he. 
 " What's the price o' that." 
 
 " It's scarce worth ony thing," replied 
 the honest woman. " It's seldom I sell 
 whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye 
 may hae't a'thegither for a penny." 
 
 " That's owre muckle, guid woman," 
 said Cubby. " A bawbee, eke a farthin, 
 is the hail value o't. I'll gie nae mair." 
 
 " I dinna deal in farthins," replied she. 
 
 "Dinna deal in farthins!" ejaculated 
 
 Cubby with surprise. '' Is a farthin no 
 the fourth part o' yer ain price o' a' that 
 bread, sufficient to keep a moderate man 
 for a week .^" 
 
 " He would be a very moderate man 
 that wad eat it," said John. " I was even 
 dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o' my 
 pigs wi't though boiled in whey." 
 
 " Whey !" ejaculated CubJoy again — 
 " do ye gie yer pigs whey } They maun 
 hae a routhy stye. Will ye hae my bode .?" 
 
 " Ye may tak it for naething," said the 
 mistress. " Hoo is Jeanie ? — she was com- 
 plainin last time I saw her." 
 
 " Complainin !" said he, as he with the 
 greatest avidity seized the bread, and stuf- 
 fed it into his pockets. " Did the lassie 
 complain ? What did she complain o' ? 
 No surely that she didna get her meat .?" 
 And he looked fearfully and inquiringly 
 into the face of Mrs. Monilaws. 
 
 " She looked in an ailing way," said 
 the mistress ; " an' I thought she was ill." 
 
 " She's owre fat — an ill complaint," 
 replied he, apparently wishing to get away. 
 
 " I dinna see that," said Mrs. Moni- 
 laws. 
 
 " But I baith see't an' feel't," replied 
 he with a grin. " Guid nicht." 
 
 " I pity the puir lassie," said Mrs. Mo- 
 nilaws, after Cubby went away, " wha's 
 doomed to live wi' that man. That's a 
 puir supper for the stamach o' an unweel 
 cratur ; an' I've a' my doots if she's no at 
 this moment confined to her strae bed. 
 Is there nae way o' gettin her out o' his 
 hands } The Laird o' Cubbertscroft wants 
 a servant, an' I promised to get ane to 
 him. Jeanie wad answer better than ony 
 other lass in a' Newabbey, but I canna see 
 her to speak to her ; for, though she comes 
 here, naebody can gae to her.'' 
 
 " There seemed to be somethino; 
 strange," replied John, " in Cubby's man- 
 ner, when ye asked him about Jeanie. If he 
 gaes lang his ain errands, an' she doesna 
 mak her appearance, I'll conclude, frae 
 what I hae seen an' heard, that there's 
 something wrang. That man has the 
 
222 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 heart to starve ane o' God's creatures— 
 aj, his ain dochter — to death. What 
 mortal could live on that meat he has taen 
 hame wi' him this nicht ? Keep an ee on 
 them, Marion ; an', if Jeanie doesna sune 
 show hersel, I'll mak sma' scruple in visit- 
 in the lion's den." 
 
 Some days afterwards, Cubby again 
 made his appearance at the counter of 
 John Monilaws ; and there being no more 
 old bread for him, he struck a long con- 
 tested bargain about some " fuisted " meal, 
 that had been long in the shop, and for 
 which he offered far beneath its real value ; 
 but Mrs. Monilaws, thinking him poor 
 and miserable, accepted his offer, though 
 she had scarcely done so when she repent- 
 of her generosity, for she immediately 
 concluded that her kindness was a species 
 of cruelty, in so far as she was accessary 
 to sending, in all likelihood to an invalid, 
 food that was not suited even to a robust 
 beggar. As he greedily grasped, and car- 
 ried away like a thief, the article he had 
 purchased, she asked again for his daugh- 
 ter ; but she got less satisfaction on this 
 occasion, than even on the last, for his 
 only answer was — " What's the use o' 
 speerin for weel folk .^" The suspicions 
 of Mrs. Monilaws were roused, rather 
 than allayed, by this answer, and the man- 
 ner in which it was delivered, and she 
 lost no time in telling her husband, that 
 he might get some of the neighbors to ac- 
 company him, and go and inquire for the 
 young girl, who, if ill, ought to be taken 
 from the house ; or, if well, might be feed 
 — whether old Grindstane was agreeable 
 or not — for the service at Cubbertscroft. 
 
 At the moment that Mrs. Monilaws and 
 her husband were engao-ed talkins: about 
 this strange individual and his daughter, 
 Carey Cuthbert — the third son of William 
 Cuthbert of Cuthbert's, or, as it was call- 
 ed, Cubbertscroft, a fine property in the 
 neighborhood — entered the shop, with a 
 message from Mrs. Cuthbert, for articles 
 for the use of the family, and a request to 
 know if any suitable servant had yet been 
 
 procured by Mrs. Monilaws. This young 
 man, who was about eighteen years of age, 
 was reputed by his parents as unfit for 
 sustaininot, even so far as a third son miorht 
 sustain, the honor and respectability of 
 the Cuthberts of Cubbertscroft. He was 
 represented as being so dull that he would 
 learn nothing; and, at the same time, so 
 fond of associating with inferior people, 
 that he could scarcely have been recog- 
 nized, either from his conversation or man- 
 ners, as the son of a gentleman. His 
 bluntness, kindness, and humility, how- 
 ever, pleased all those with whom his fa- 
 ther did not wish him to associate. With 
 many of the humble inhabitants of New- 
 abbey he was on the most familiar footing ; 
 and nothing pleased him better than to get 
 into the village, where, on every side, he 
 could find companions of the grade that 
 suited his (as his father termed it) de- 
 praved taste. In these humbler societies, 
 however, Carey learned what perhaps he 
 would not have done from the Greek and 
 Latin books which, at school, were eter- 
 nally in his hands, and never in his head. 
 Like most other individuals, whether fools 
 or wits, he had a genius of his own ; and, 
 as the worms on which the mole feeds are 
 larger and fatter than the flying insects 
 that form the food of the swallow, humi- 
 lity, and a taste for the common sense 
 that, like water, is best and purest the 
 farther down you go, may be vindicated 
 on the grand principle of utility and inte- 
 rest. We do not give a young man of 
 eighteen credit for an a priori knowledge 
 that his interests lay in searching among 
 the humble for that " lear," that could 
 not be got among the sons of the great ; 
 but we may safely assert, that nature had 
 placed in him an instinctive liking for the 
 simple and the natural, and he might soon 
 perceive, without any spirit of divination, 
 that, by following nature as his guide, he 
 might arrive at a more satisfactory termi- 
 nation of his journey, than his horse- 
 racing brothers, William and George, who 
 were fast flying through their father's es- 
 
THE MISER OP NEW ABBEY. 
 
 223 
 
 tate. He had nearly already, however, 
 been given up as untractable ; his speech, 
 as Ins mother said, had been Scotch from 
 the iiist lisp ; his ideas had been of the 
 earth, from the first moment he crawled 
 upon it ; and the servants his compa- 
 nions, from the time ho was able to escape, 
 by the aid of his own feet, from the 
 nursery. 
 
 As soon as Carey had delivered his 
 messao-e, he conceived he had thrown off 
 the servitude imposed upon him by his 
 mother, who considered him of no other 
 use than to carry a verbal communication 
 to the village. Entertaining a very differ- 
 ent opinion of Carey's powers, John Mo- 
 nilaws told him of the strange conduct of 
 Cubby Grindstane (whom he also well 
 knew, as indeed every person in the neigh- 
 borhood), in endeavoring to conceal the 
 illness of his daughter, who was the indi- 
 vidual to bo recommended to his mother 
 as a servant. Carey confessed he thouo-ht 
 the conduct of Cubby very suspicious, 
 and, with a knowing look, hinted that it 
 had been long his intention to endeavor to 
 ascertain something more of the old cob- 
 bler than the people of Newabbey yet 
 knew. 
 
 " It is just you callants," said John, 
 *' wha are best at thae things. When I 
 was like ye, there wasna a house tap in a' 
 Newabbey I didna ken as weel as the 
 sparrows that biggit their nests in them. 
 There are queerer sights seen i' the warld, 
 by lookin down than by lookin mjo, for a' 
 that astronomers may say on the subject. 
 It was I that discovered Marion Muschet 
 killin her new-born bairn wi' a pack- 
 thread. I saw her through her ain sky- 
 licht; an', though I had nae power to 
 speak, I had plenty o' pith i' my legs ; 
 but fule that I was, I forgot that, lang 
 afore I could get assistance, the pack- 
 thread wad hae dune its wark. Sae it 
 was — the face of the bairn was as blue as 
 my bannet, when, by my means, it was 
 discovered." 
 
 ' ' An' muckle ye got for yer sky-larkin," 
 
 said Mrs Monilaws. " Ye hansjed the 
 puir woman, an' got the name o' Skylicht 
 Johnnie, whilk ye hae carried about wi' ye 
 ever smce, and will do till the day ye 
 dee." 
 
 " Ay, Marion," answered the good- 
 natured husband, " I haetaen nane o'thae 
 flights sin' I married ye. Ye keep me 
 weel down. I suffered weel i' my young 
 days for looking down ; but I fear I wad 
 suffer mair noo for lookin up. But the 
 deil's no buried i' Kirkaldy, if I wadna 
 hae a blink through Cubby Grindstane's 
 skylicht, were my legs as soople as Mr. 
 Carey Cuthbert's there, an' I had nae wife 
 on my back." 
 
 Carey looked and smiled, and said no- 
 thing ; but his mind was not so inactive as 
 his tongue. 
 
 " Ye wad be nearer yer purpose, John," 
 said Marion, "if ye wad tak wi' ye oor 
 neebor, John Willison, a godly elder o' the 
 kirk, an' gae bauldly in at the door. John 
 will tiik wi' him prayers, an' ye some o' 
 my jellies. I never kenned ony guid come 
 by a skylicht — except, maybe. Widow 
 Gairdner's ; wha was sittin ae nicht, 
 thinkin whar she wad get her supper ; an', 
 as she thought, an' thought, an' was nae 
 better or fu'er for thinkin, a man fell frae 
 the roof at her feet, an', throwin frac him 
 sixteen gowd guineas wi' pure fear, flew 
 out at the door as if Beelzebub an' a' his 
 angels had been after him. Widow Gaird- 
 ner got her supper that nicht. Naebody 
 ever asked for the guineas ; but it was 
 weel kenned frae whase hoose they were 
 stown." 
 
 " Ah, Marion, Marion," said John, 
 laughing ; " an' sae ye forget yer ain 
 mither's skylicht, through whilk I used to 
 gae to court ye." 
 
 "An' I do nae sic things, John," replied 
 Mrs. Monilaws, jocularly ; " ye never 
 brocht sixteen gowd guineas wi' ye when 
 ye cam doon through my mither's skylicht, 
 to court her dochter." 
 
 This conversation was not lost upon 
 Carey Cuthbert, although he said nothing. 
 
224 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 He laughed heartily at tli3 dry humor of 
 the honest, happy couple, and went to 
 visit his other fiiendo in the village. In 
 the afternoon, he was seen studying like a 
 painter the form and appearance of old 
 Grindstane's house, and did not leave the 
 villao;e till the evening. As soon as it was 
 sufficient!}^ dark, he repaired again to the 
 old black domicile ; and having during 
 daylight taken his eye-draughts, he tried if 
 he could observe what was going on in the 
 inside of the house from the small window 
 in the side-wall, or from a small round hole 
 in the gable. Both apertures were, how- 
 ever, completely closed, the greatest care 
 having apparently been taken, not only to 
 shut the crazy shutters, but to stuff up the 
 holes with pieces of rags, and to cover up 
 all with a cloth hung from the inside so as 
 to cover all the interior part of the win- 
 dows. Carey saw, however, enough to 
 satisfy him that the inmates had not re- 
 tired to rest ; for there was light in the 
 cottage, and he thought he observed that 
 it moved, as if some one were carrying a 
 lamp from one part of the interior to 
 another. He heard no sounds ; for the 
 individual who moved the light walked 
 softly, as if he wished to avoid making any 
 disturbance. 
 
 " We hae nae hope upon earth," said 
 Carey to himself, quaintly ; " I maun tak 
 for ance my mither's counsel, an' soar — 
 though, 1 fear, crawlin on thatched roofs 
 is no the kind o' ambition she wants me to 
 flee at." 
 
 With these words, and a smile on his 
 face, Carey went along, and, by the aid of 
 a tree, mounted to the top of the house 
 adjacent to Cubby's. Resisting a strong 
 temptation to peep into the interior of this 
 house, which presented a very clear, open, 
 and convenient skylight, through which 
 many secrets might have been discovered, 
 he slipped softly along, and laid himself 
 on the thatch of Cubby's house, with his 
 feet in the spout, and his head on the small 
 aperture, with one pane of yelked glass, 
 through which, if any light had been in 
 
 the interior, he could very easily have 
 seen all that went on in the inside of tha 
 cottage. All, however, was dark as pitch 
 — a circumstance which appeared to him 
 somewhat strange, as he was certain he 
 had seen light in the house before he 
 mounted ; but to be accounted for suffi- 
 ciently easily, by supposing that the light 
 had been extinguished during the time he 
 had been occupied in getting up. He had 
 no hopes now of seeing anything that 
 night ; but, as he was there at any rate 
 (so he argued), he might as well rest him- 
 self a little, after the fatigues of a day 
 spent running about in various directions,, 
 and he might perhaps hear something, if 
 he could see nothing ; a mode of acquiring 
 knowledge he had less objection to, ih.m 
 to the ocular exercises on printed paper, 
 so much recommended by his paients 
 and Dominie Blackletter — a cre.iture he 
 hated. 
 
 Having lain quietly for some time, he 
 heard, very distinctly, hollow moans, 
 coming from the lower part of the house. 
 They were of the most unearthly kind he 
 had ever heard, suggesting, as they struck 
 the pained ear, the idea of some one suf- 
 fering the last pangs of mortal agony. 
 These were mixed, or alternated, with 
 occasional harsh objurgatory notes, coming 
 from anothor person, apparently a man, 
 and supposed, by Carey, to be Cubby 
 Grandison himself. These were followed 
 by a scream, which appeared to be stifled 
 towards its conclusion, as if some one had 
 applied a cloth or other obstruction to the 
 mouth of the individual giving vent to the 
 unbearable agony. The scream marked 
 the individual as a female, and Carey set 
 her down as the unfortunate daughter of 
 whom he had heard John Monilaws and 
 his wife talking in the fore part of the day. 
 These sounds continued for a considerable 
 time. The groans, the objurgations, the 
 scream stifled as before, succeeded each 
 other ; and then, for a time, a deep silence 
 reigned throughout the interior, only to be 
 interrupted again, by a repetition of the 
 
THE MISER OF NEWABBEY. 
 
 225 
 
 same sounds. At last, a louder scream 
 than any he had yet heard, burst from the 
 mouth of the sufferer, and, in an instant, 
 a noise, as of some one falling over chairs, 
 was heard, and then a sudden stifling of 
 the scream, accompanied by the objurga- 
 tory and menacing voice of a man, whose 
 auii;3r seemed to increase with the ueces- 
 sity of an increase of his efforts to stop the 
 complaint of the sufferer. This scream 
 vrds the last that Carey heard. A deep 
 silence again reigned, and a full quarter 
 of an hour passed without any indications 
 being perceived of the presence of a living 
 person in the cottage. 
 
 Havino" waited for a considerable time 
 without hearing anything further, Carey 
 concluded that the suffering individual 
 had been suffocated, and was on the eve 
 of getting down to give an alarm. His 
 attention was again arrested by a new phe- 
 nomenon. A liij-ht was now observable 
 through the chinks of an apparent parti- 
 tion between the skylight and the under 
 or main part of the house, an unusual oc- 
 currence in Scotch cottages, which have 
 generally no garret, or any other apart- 
 ment than what extends from roof to 
 ceilino-. A noise was now heard, as of 
 some one trying to open a locked door. 
 Success attended his efforts and, in a 
 little time, a small door, sufl&cient to let 
 in the body of a man in a crawling pos 
 ture, opened, and discovered the face and 
 upper part of the body of Cuthbert Gran- 
 dison, holding in his hands a small cruisie, 
 which sent forth a doubtful, glimmering- 
 light, scarcely sufficient to do more than 
 show the high bones and grey eye of the 
 strange individual who held it. The door 
 being opened, he placed the cruisie into 
 the small apartment into which it led, 
 whereby Carey was enabled to see the 
 nature of the place and its extraordinary 
 contents. As he surveyed them, he shook 
 with terror, and was once afraid that his 
 perturbation would discover him. The 
 apartment was a place in the form of a 
 small garret, extending to about a half the 
 
 size of the under apartment of the cottage ; 
 and seemed to have been formed after the 
 house was built, for the purpose to which 
 it was devoted. Casting his eye around 
 and round, what struck the fearful obser- 
 ver first, was a skeleton of a human being, 
 lying extended along the floor, and half 
 enveloped in the darkness, which the 
 glimmering taper only partially illumina- 
 ted. It had been the first human skeleton 
 Carey had ever seen ; and the circum- 
 stances under which he now beheld it, 
 shiuing principally by the borrowed light 
 of its bleached bones, and suggesting some 
 mysterious connexion between the being 
 whose physical system it once supported, 
 and the extraordinaiy individual who held 
 this strange piece of household furniture, 
 rendeied the sight appalling and horripi- 
 lant. On a chest at the other side of the 
 apartment lay another skeleton, apparent- 
 ly that of a new-born child, whose tiny 
 shanks, worm-like finger bones, and small 
 head, formed a striking and painful con- 
 trast to its full-grown companion — sug- 
 gesting the probability of some kindred 
 blood having once warmed the sapless 
 bones, and some kindred fate having dried 
 it up, leaving these dry tokens as the only 
 monument of then* sorrows and misfor- 
 tunes. Around on all sides were large 
 packages cased with iron, and sitting on a 
 small hook attached to the wall near the 
 ceiling was another inhabitant of this 
 living cemetery, which, from the singulari- 
 ty of its aspect, its silence, and its locali- 
 ty, excited as much terror in Carey as 
 even the skeleton. This was no other 
 than a large grey owl, sitting as demure 
 as grimalkin, with its goggle eyes at their 
 utmost stretch, glaring in the light of the 
 taper like fiery balls, and rolling as if in 
 anger at being interrupted by the intruder 
 in its enjoyment of eating a mouse, which, 
 dead and mangled, was firmly clenched in 
 its claws. The few minutes that served 
 Carey to examine these extraordinary 
 appearances, whose reality he doubted 
 against all the clearness of his rubbed 
 
 VOL. II 
 
 15 
 
 V,^ 
 
•22G 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 eyes, enabled Cuthbert Grandison to 
 crawl into the place, through the limited 
 aperture opening in its side. The moment 
 he got in, he shut the door carefully, and 
 threw his eyes up to the pane of glass 
 through which Carey was looking, without, 
 however, observing him, as he instantly 
 drew back his head. When Carey again 
 directed his eyes to the object of his cu- 
 riosity and awe, he was lying prostrate by 
 the side of the bones of the larger skele- 
 ton. He then rose up, threw a look of 
 recc^-nition to the owl, which went on with 
 its repast, heedless of the ceremony wath 
 which it had been honored. The necro- 
 mantic appearance, attitude, and acts of 
 the hunchbacked living skeleton, who 
 thus stood as it were in the midst of the 
 dead, communing with them by a secret 
 and mysterious power, realized in the 
 mind of the neophyte all the stories he 
 had heard and read of the wonderful and 
 the terrific. The subsequent conduct of 
 the performer was not less extraordinary. 
 His ceremonies and operations occupied a 
 full hour. Everything was noticed by 
 Carey ; and if what we have attempted to 
 describe produced wonder, what we have 
 at present abstained from narrating, from 
 a regard to what is due to the importance 
 of other circumstances waiting for detail, 
 was not calculated to lessen that feeling. 
 
 Carey having got down again from the 
 roof top, hurried away home at the top of 
 bis speed ; for he had staid too long, and 
 was certain of a scold from his parents, 
 for havino- been seduced into low practices, 
 by the vulgar inhabitants of the village. 
 A confusion in the house, produced by a 
 poinding having been that day executed, 
 but removed by payment of the debt 
 which had beeu incurred by the eldest son, 
 William, and corroborated by the indul- 
 gent father, saved him from the abuse 
 which awaited him. Though young, he 
 had sense enough to see the folly of the 
 proceedings of his father and brothers, 
 and sighed as he retired to his couch, in 
 the anticipation of a greater evil impend- 
 
 ing over the house of Cuthbert, than the 
 humble-mindedness of its third son. The 
 anticipated misfortunes of his father, and 
 the recollection of the extraordinary sights 
 he had witnessed from the roof top of 
 Cubby Grandison, kept him awake during 
 the greater part of the night. His medi- 
 tations took various turns. The abuse to 
 which he was daily exposed at the hands 
 of his parents and brothers, produced an 
 ambition of showing himself worthy of 
 their regard, and even of saving them from 
 the ruin that seemed to await them ; but 
 the schemes whereby that was to be ac- 
 complished, formed in a youthful mind, 
 fell far short of the wishes which produced 
 them. In the morning, he was duly cate- 
 chised as to the cause of his being so late 
 in coming home ; but he chose rather to 
 be subjected to the suspicion of having 
 been in the company of Sandy Ferrier the 
 smith, or Geordie Mactubbie the cooper, 
 or any other humble, but witty denizen of 
 Newabbey, whose laugh caught his ready 
 sympathies, than divulge the secrets of 
 his evening's adventures, on the house-top 
 of Cubby Grindstane the cobbler. 
 
 Next day it was absolutely necessary — 
 so at least thought Carey Cuthbert — 
 that he should again see John Monilaws, 
 about his mother's servant, though he had 
 no new commission from her to execute, 
 connected with that affair ; and giving 
 Gideon Blackletter and his Greek and 
 Latin books the slip, he hastened again to 
 Newabbey, now become a much more in- 
 teresting place than Cubbertscroft. 
 
 " Ye've got nae intelligence yet, I f\in- 
 cy, Mrs. Monilaws, aboot my mither's 
 servant .^" he said, as he entered the shop 
 of the gaucy dealer in many wares. 
 
 " No yet, Mr. Carey," replied she. 
 " There's been a consultation atwoen El- 
 der Willison an' John, as to the time o' 
 their visit to Cubby's den, as they ca' it. 
 They're speakin o' four o'clock. They 
 want a stout young chiel wi' them, for 
 fear o' accidents. As you're a little inte- 
 rested i' the affair, an' fond o' sichts, 
 
TH.-: yiHEl OF Nt:VVA33EY. 
 
 227 
 
 maybe ye may condescend to accompany 
 them ? ' 
 
 " IVe nae ohj^^ctions,'' answered Carey. 
 *' Is there ony other livin creature sup- 
 posed to be i the house, but Cubby an' 
 his dochter ?'' 
 
 " No," answered the mistress, " if in- 
 deed ane o' thae twa even be livin ; but 
 few folk can tell muckle aboot the inside 
 o' Cubby Grindstane's hous^e, for he has 
 a way o' nieetin visitors at the door, an', 
 staniu richt i the gap, speaks them fair, 
 an' gets them awa as sune as he can." 
 
 " Was he ever married, km ye ?''' said 
 Carey, '' or did ye ev^ir hear o' ony ither 
 body that lived wi' him .?" 
 
 '"• 1 dinna ken, ' replied she. " He has- 
 
 na had a wife sin' he cam to Newabbey." 
 
 " Is his dochter Jeanie, wluim ye intend 
 
 for my mither's servant, like her father .'^" 
 
 said Carey. 
 
 *' As unlike as ony twa creatures can 
 be," replied Mrs. Monilaws. '' He's a 
 hunchbacked scarecraw, an' she's a bonny 
 young lassie, whase beauty, a' the ill usage 
 and starvation she has suflF^red, hasna 
 been able to tak the blume frae ; but 
 muckle 1 fear, that blume winna stand 
 muckle langer, if indeed death hasna al- 
 ready blawn the witherin gouch o' his 
 breath ou't. But this day will expose a' 
 the secrets o' the inside o' that house." 
 
 " I see nae great reason," replied Ca- 
 rey, " for supposin there's ony great se- 
 cret aboot it." 
 
 " What maks him keep a'body oot, then, 
 Mr. Carey, man .^" said the mistress. 
 " What gies him that side-look, that fearfu 
 girn, an' his slouchin walk ? What main- 
 tains him } — for he works nane ; and why 
 winna Jeanie speak abune her breath when 
 she sees him, or answer, when he's awa, 
 ony question aboot him or his hoose .^" 
 
 " A' prejudice, Mrs. Monilaws," re- 
 plied Carey ; " auld wives' wind eggs, 
 hatched, nae doot, by a covey o' them, as 
 they sit thegither till they clock. The 
 puir man doesna want to be fashed wi' a 
 set o' meddlin neebors." 
 
 At four o'clock, Elder Willison, John 
 Monilaws, and Carey, went to the house 
 of Cubby Grindstane. The door was 
 locked. They knocked, and asked ad- 
 mi ttan e. 
 
 '■' What want ye .^" said a rough voice 
 from within 
 
 " We hae som.e shoes to get mended," 
 said John Monilaws. 
 
 '• I'm ill, ."^n' no in a mendin way the 
 d y," replied Cubby. " Gang awa to 
 Jamie Goodawl's." 
 
 '■'- Jamie has owre muckle to do, and 
 tauld us to gang to Cubby Grindstane," 
 said the godly elder. 
 
 " My awl s my ain," said Cubby, in 
 wors':^ humor ; " an' sae lang as it's no 
 thirled to the soles o' men. ] m free frae 
 the power o' their bodies. Awa wi' ye !" 
 
 " You're in my district, Cubby," said 
 the elder, " an' I hae the command o' 
 Mr. Singer, oor minister, to ca' upon ye, 
 and inquire for the state o' yer soul, whilk, 
 to reverse yer puir pun, is, we fear, owre 
 closely thirled to yer all. Yer dochter 
 has also a soul to be saved; and Mr. 
 Singer says he never saw you or her i' the 
 kirk." 
 
 " Weel, if I dinna trouble him, he has 
 nae richt to trouble me," replied Cubby. 
 " 1 say again, awa wi' ye ! The law says 
 a man's hoose is his castle, an' it says 
 true," 
 
 " That's an unfortunate allusion," whis- 
 pered Carey to John Monilaws. " Castles 
 are made to be attacked." 
 
 " An' to be defended," answered Cub- 
 by, who had overheard the remark. 
 
 Carey applied his powerful back to the 
 crazy door, and, in an instant, threw it 
 open, overturning at the back of it a 
 number of pieces of old furniture, placed 
 as props or defences, to prevent its being 
 opened. The party entered, and, in an 
 instant, were in the middle of the cottage, 
 which was in two divisions — one end beinsr 
 occupied by a small truckle bed, on which 
 a human body lay extended ; and the 
 other, which Carey remarked was under 
 
228 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the small garret where he had observed 
 the nocturnal rites, presented nothing but 
 a few broken stools ; some straw in one 
 corner over which a dirty sheet and a 
 blanket were spread ; a fire, with about as 
 much live coal in it as a hand might hold, 
 as well for quantity as activity of heat ; a 
 small cupboard, with a padlock on it of 
 twice the value of the article it guarded, 
 presenting some bones that had once, and 
 while another's property, been covered 
 with roasted meat, and seemed by their 
 whiteness to have been four or five times 
 boiled, with the remnant of the fuisted 
 meal purchased from Mrs. Monilaws. 
 
 " This is a strange way," said Cubby, 
 as he went to what might have been called 
 the butt end of the cottage— " this is a 
 strange fashion o' bringing the word o' 
 God to folk that dinna want it." 
 
 " We are tauld," replied the elder, " to 
 strive for the repentance o' sinners." 
 
 " Ay, but ye're no tauld to break open 
 folks doors, to force them to repent," re- 
 plied Cubby. " Besides, Mr. Willison, 
 whar's the shoon Jamie Goodawl said he 
 couldna mend, and sent ye to me wi' .? 
 Amang sins to be repented o', a lee is a 
 very guid ane to begin wi'." 
 
 '' Hoo's Jeanie, yer dochter .^'' said the 
 elder, who was fairly caught by Cubby. 
 
 " What should ail her .^" said Cubby, 
 looking suspiciously, and moving between 
 them and the other apartment. 
 
 " That's just what we want to ken," 
 sai/lJohn Monilaws, pushing Cubby a lit- 
 tle to the side, and moving slowly into the 
 other division, followed by the elder and 
 Carey. 
 
 The sight that here presented itself to 
 them, as they approached the small truckle 
 bed, and folded down the top of the only 
 blanket that covered the body of a female, 
 was of the most wretched and pitiful cha- 
 racter. It was with the greatest difficulty 
 that John Monilaws could recocrnise the 
 features of Jeanie Gratidison (for such the 
 invalid was), reduced, by the ill-matched 
 pair, famine and disease, to the last stage 
 
 of existence. The bloom which Mrs. 
 Monilaws feared for was indeed withered, 
 and the stailk which supported the flower 
 attenuated to a fibre. Pale as a corpse, 
 and emaciated beyond the lowest state of 
 body that keeps burning the lamp of life, 
 it appeared doubtful, in the absence of 
 motion, whether she should be classed 
 among living mortals. The approach of 
 strangers seemed to produce no efi"ect 
 upon her ; for her eyelids, which about 
 half covered the glazed orbs, remained 
 stationary, and no symptoms of breathing 
 could be discovered. At the side of the 
 bed, stood a three-footed stool, on which 
 was placed a tin tankard, containing some 
 cold water, and a small bowl, with about 
 an ounce of cold porridge (made, no doubt, 
 of part of the meal seen in the press), in 
 the bottom of it, no part of which seemed 
 marked by the rusty iron spoon that lay 
 alongside of the dish. 
 
 t' Why did ye say to my wife, Cubby, 
 that that lassie was weel, when it's scarce- 
 ly possible to observe in her a spark o'life .'" 
 
 " And what guid wad it hae dune to 
 hae said she was ill .^" replied Cubby. " I 
 canna pay for possets an' puddins recom- 
 mended by auld wives ; an' a doctor is far 
 ayont my degree or ability." 
 
 '' Ye micht hae begged assistance, 
 then," said John. " Naebody wad hae 
 refused a bite or a sup to ane o' God's 
 creatures, lyin at the point o' death." 
 
 " The folk hereabout," replied Cubby, 
 " are owrc proud o' their bites and sups, 
 no to come an' enjoy the luxury o' seein' 
 their charity applied, and gettin' their 
 luo-s lined wi' the return o' gratitude . A 
 house fu' o' folk, an' a pouch wi' three 
 farthins i' the corner o't, dinna sort weel 
 thegither. Besides, what mair can ony 
 sick body get than meat and drink .^" 
 
 " An' do ye ca' that meat and drink ?" 
 said John, pointing to the porridge and 
 water. 
 
 " What wad you ca' it !" replied Cub- 
 by, grinning. " I wish I may get na waur 
 to comfort me when I come to dee." 
 
THE MiSLR OP i\EWABBEY. 
 
 22i) 
 
 " If the fear of expense," said Carey, 
 "has prevented ye frae lettin' the nee- 
 bors ken o' yer daughter's illness, wadna 
 the same cause hae prevented ye fiae tel- 
 lin' o' her death ! A funeral costs siller 
 — what wad ye hae dune wi' the body ?" 
 
 Cubby seemed moved by this question , 
 and eyed the speaker suspiciously and 
 fearfully. 
 
 " What's that to ye, callant ?" he said 
 at last. " A man's nae great mechanic 
 wha canna ca' thegither four white d als ; 
 and they that carry to the grave dinna 
 trouble ane by coming back to ask for 
 their fare, as other carriers do." 
 
 '' SheMl no be ill to carry, puir thing," 
 said John Monilaws. " 1 ha only weight 
 about her will be that o' death, whilk tboy 
 say is great even in a bird. Whar docs 
 her mither lie ?" 
 
 " Whar should she lie !" replied Cubby, 
 again put into a state of agitation, re- 
 marked particularly by Carey. " Think 
 ye she's no in her grave ?'^ 
 
 " 1 hae little doot o' that, Cubby,'' said 
 the other ; " but 1 hope puir Jeanie hears 
 naethiug o' a' this." 
 
 On lookins: at the invalid, all parties 
 were surprised to see her looldng up in 
 their faces, apparently comprehending 
 evei-y word they said. 
 
 " Ye're better, I think, Jeanie," said 
 John. 
 
 '• ] dinna k^n," replied the poor maiden. 
 " Ask my faither. 1 can say naething 
 about mysel He'll answer for me.'' 
 
 " Hae ye been gettin ony meat except 
 this crowdy an' Adam's wine .^'' again said 
 the other. 
 
 " My faither kens best what kind o' 
 wine I hae been gettin,'' replied she. 
 
 " Wine !" ejaculated. Cubby—'- God 
 keep me an' my house frae sic extrava- 
 gance ! Mair simls an' siller hae be n 
 drooned in tha-t liquor than in the Dead 
 Sea, whilk bauds Sodom and Gomorrah." 
 
 '' An some bodies hae been saved wi t,'' 
 said John, taking out a sma'l bottle and a 
 glass, and emptying some wine, which, by 
 
 holding up the poor invalid, he endeavored 
 to prevail upon her to taste. 
 
 Cubby turned up his eyes and his hands 
 to heaven. Jeanie looked fearfully at her 
 father, and refused to taste the wine, 
 though her lips were as withered leaves. 
 
 " The taste o't will never leave her 
 mouth,'' ejaculated Cubby. " Awa wi' 
 you an' your wine ! Is my bairn to be 
 corrupted, an' her faither lookin' on } 
 What can be expected o' ane wha has 
 swallowed three hail pennies at ae gulp .? 
 God hae mercy on us !" 
 
 " You seem to want yer doehter dead," 
 said the eldor. "■ The Lord has sent us 
 thae tilings to be used, and no abused. 
 Paul says, ^ Drink no longer water, but 
 use a little wine for thy stomach's sake, 
 and thine often infirmities.' " 
 
 "I'll no take that," replied Cubby, 
 " on the faith o' ane wha said he cam here 
 wi shune to mend, when his true errand 
 was to corrupt the stamach o' my doehter. 
 Paul had mair sense than to learn folk 
 thae evil habits." 
 
 " Show me a Bible, an' I'll point ye 
 out the passage," said the elder. 
 
 " 1 may thank the Bible," repli'^d Cub- 
 by ; " for the auld ane 1 ance had, an' 
 whilk i sauld for half-a-crown to Geordie 
 Bookless o' Dumfries, kept me an' .Jeanie 
 livin' for five weeks — sae J hae naelhing to 
 say against that guid bulk ; but 1 haena 
 been able to buy a second. Ye may noo 
 gang yer ways. Ye see that neither yer 
 wine nor yer text is o' ony use in this 
 house." 
 
 " Will 3-0U alloo her to lak onything 
 else, than. Cubby, if raj- wife sends it to 
 ye .^" said John Monilaws. 
 
 "It's no often ye hear 0' a puir penni- 
 less cratur like me refusin onything that 
 wad save his stock 0' three guid farthins. 
 1 wad tak ony gift but luxuries, provided 
 the giver didna want entrance to my hou?e ; 
 but (hat's impossible. A' that gie think 
 they hae a licht to enter yer house as they 
 like. Sae 1 dispense wi' yer gifts. Awa 
 wi' you and them baith !" 
 
230 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 '* It's iu vaiu to fecht wi' biin," whis- 
 pered Carey into the ear of John Moni- 
 laws. " it's char tha lassij will dee if she's 
 no removed. I 11 hand Cubby, if you an' 
 the elder will lift the truckle-bed bodily, 
 an' carry the lassie an' it thegither into 
 yer ain house," 
 
 This communication was approved of, 
 and conveyed to the elder. A sign was 
 given by Carey, who instantly seized Cub- 
 by by the shoulders ; while, the door being 
 opened, the two others lifted with the 
 greatest ease the small couch, and, to the 
 great surprise of the neighbors, who re- 
 joiced in the proceeding, carried it with 
 the poor victim into John's house, where 
 the humane mistress, who had a liking for 
 Jeanie, received her with pleasure, and 
 proceeded to contribute to her ease and 
 recovery. The greatest terror was evinced 
 by Cubby on being let free from the pow- 
 erful grasp of Carey. He flew out of the 
 house like one distracted (yet locking, 
 even in his hurry, the door), forced him- 
 self through the crowd into John Moni- 
 laws' house, and, by threats, imprecations, 
 supplications, and even bribes, endeavored 
 to get possession of his daughter. His 
 conduct appeared to the people inexpli- 
 cable. The starvation of his daughter, 
 and the aiFection (for what else could it be 
 that produced his anxiety .') that suggested 
 such means of regaining possession of her, 
 appeared inconsistent ; and if the sanity 
 of the individual had not, by his conversa- 
 tion, been well established, he would have 
 been considered a madman. His violence 
 arose to such a pitch that it was found 
 necessary to guard the door ; and it was 
 only after some feigned attempt to break 
 into his own house, which seemed to tcr- 
 lify him even more than the detention of 
 his daughter, that he was forced home, 
 and the poor girl was left unmolested under 
 the charge of Mrs. Monilaws. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jeanie, being kindly treated 
 and attended by a surgeon, recovered with 
 a quickness proportioned to the powers of 
 reaction of a youthful constitution, acting 
 
 on a system once more restored to the en- 
 joyment of what Dr. Leechman called the 
 non-naturals. Her natural beauty, which 
 had never yet got fair play, began to show 
 itself ; and her simple and timid manners, 
 produced by the dreadful tyranny under 
 which she had lived, excited a deep inter- 
 est in her protectors and preservers. She 
 never, however, could be prevailed upon 
 to speak of her father, or of anything con- 
 nected with the house. A shudder passed 
 over her when his name was mentioned ; 
 and she expressed an anxiety either to be 
 put beyond his power or again restored 
 to him, an alternative which was not well 
 understood by her protectors, but sufl5- 
 ciently explained by the dangers to which 
 she would be exposed if she were made 
 accessible to him when he was under the 
 influence of the fits of terror, excitement, 
 and anxiety, he had exhibited already on 
 more than one occasion, and, perhaps, 
 partly to be accounted for by some secret 
 cause which she could not be prevailed 
 upon to divulge. She was quite agreeable 
 to go to Cubbertscroft as a servant ; and 
 it was arranged that she should accord- 
 ingly proceed there as soon as she had 
 totally recovered. Grieved for her want 
 of education, Mrs. Monilaws procured, for 
 her instruction in reading; and writino;, the 
 services of the village schoolmaster, who 
 attended her daily after she was able for 
 the exercise, and was much gratified by 
 the rapid progress she made (for she was 
 of quick parts) under his zealous tuition. 
 
 During all this period, Jeanie Grandison 
 was regularly visited by Carey Cuthbert, 
 whose interest in her, though he had not 
 then seen her, commenced from the event- 
 ful evening when he made the awful dis- 
 coveries we have partly detailed, through 
 her father's skylight : and had increased 
 fiom the moment he saw the first tint of 
 the bloom of returning health on her pal- 
 lid cheek, and heard the sounds of her 
 cl?ar melodious voice, though exercised 
 only in the expression of the sentiments 
 of a half-broken, timid, yet grateful heart. 
 
Thtu: MISilK Oi.^' xNi-: vVA^jbL:.^. 
 
 231 
 
 When properly restored to health, Jeanie 
 set out, under the protection of John Mo- 
 nilaws and Carey (who, however, left 
 them before he approached the house), to 
 Cubbertscroft, where she entered upon 
 her service. Nothing was said to any one 
 of her parentage ; all that was told to Mrs. 
 Cuthbert or the other servants, being, that 
 she had, after having come to Mrs. Moni- 
 laws to be engaged, been seized with a 
 fever, which prevented her sooner from 
 entering upon her service. This caution 
 had been observed in accordance with 
 Jeanie'sown wish ; but her curious history 
 reached the ears o' one of the servants, 
 and very soon became known to the fami- 
 ly, who did not treat her any bettar, be- 
 cause she was i-eputed to be the daughter 
 of one already notorious in that part of the 
 country for squalid beggary and extraor- 
 dinary and mysterious conduct. Mrs. 
 Cuthbert, an unfeeling woman, whose con- 
 tempt was measured by the humbleness of 
 the birth, circumstances, and education 
 of every ouq around her, treated her 
 harshly — not hesitating, in her moods of 
 spleen and passion, to taunt her with her 
 father's abject poverty, and her own ori- 
 gin. The protection and kindness she 
 received from Carey, were limited by his 
 want of opportunity and power ; but the 
 early interest he felt in her soon assumed 
 a n w character, and an affection, pure 
 and honorable as the heart that entertained 
 it, took possession of him, with all the 
 energy of a youthful passion. The op- 
 portunities he had of conversing with her, 
 were stolen from the watchful surveillance 
 of his parents ; who, acquainted with his 
 habits of humble companionship, had 
 threatened to turn him from tlie house if 
 he did not renounce them ; but, as the 
 mountains, piled by the daring hand of 
 Titan, are not able to stop the mountain 
 stream, many dcvicos were fallen upon by 
 Carey, to give vent to a pas>i,'n whose 
 course, though proverbially crooked, is 
 also proverbially irresistible. When Jeanie 
 was supposed to be visiting her fi lends in 
 
 Newabbey — a place she dared not enter — 
 she was along with Carey, in the Wolfs 
 Brake, a very retired place in the neigh- 
 borhood, whore they conceived they were 
 perfectly safe from the disturbance of their 
 cnomi s ; but they were discovered by 
 Carey's parents, who cruelly dismissed 
 them both from the house. Carey was 
 true to his love ; and they proceeded to- 
 gether to the village, where they were 
 received by John Monilaws and his wife, 
 to whom they related their strange story, 
 with kindn ss. Some time afterwards, 
 they were married, and Carey paid little 
 attention to the remarks of the neighbors, 
 who could not see ^' hoo the young gen- 
 tleman, without a trade in his hand," was 
 to support himself and a wife. Even 
 John Monilaws thought the match, in the 
 meantime, imprudent, and recommended 
 that it should be postponed until Carey 
 had learned some trade or profession. 
 Carey smiled in reply, and thought of 
 what he had seen from the sky-light of his 
 father-in-law's cottao-e. 
 
 In a short time it was currently re- 
 ported, that the laird of Cubbertscroft 
 was over head and ears in debt, and that 
 the property was to be brought to the 
 hammer. This news was soon but too 
 well corroborated by large printed bills, 
 posted in various parts of the county, ad- 
 vertising the sale of the property of Cub- 
 bertscroft, in the town-hall of Dumfries, 
 on a day and hour set forth. One of 
 these fell into the hands of Carey. He 
 sallied out of the house ; and, it being at 
 the time dark, he sought, and forcibly en- 
 tered the dark and dismal habitation of 
 Cubby Grindstane, now his father-in- 
 law. 
 
 " Ken ye the law against hamesucken, 
 sir .'" said Cubby, recognizing bim. 
 
 " I do," said Carey ; " but it is a sub- 
 tle point wi the lawyers hoo strong a rap 
 (intended to let folk hear ye, but haein 
 the by effect o' op?nin the door) amounts 
 to forcible entry. 1 cam to ask hoo ye 
 are. Cubby Grindstane." 
 
233 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " A' sort o' impudence," said CuLby, 
 " is comprehended by that cant. If folk 
 want to borrow frae ye, (whilk, God be 
 praised ! I'm far ayont,) if they want to 
 steal yer time, if they want to see what's 
 i' yer hoose, or what's intended to be in 
 yer stamaeh, they aye cloak their inten- 
 tions wi' askin' hoo ye are — the maist un- 
 meanin' o' a' questions. Gang yer ways 
 the way ye cam, sir ; an' I'll send ye a 
 weekly bulletin o' my health." 
 
 " Bulletins hae been issued aboot the 
 health o' folk o' less consequence," said 
 Carey, pointing his finger to the small 
 garret. 
 
 " What mean ye, sir .?" said Cubby, 
 staring at him with his eyes at their full 
 stretch, and showing signs of great agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Sit down Cubby," said Carey—" I 
 want to speak to ye, for a short time, ra- 
 tionally and quietly. I hae nae ill inten- 
 tions towards ye ; an', if ye are discreet, 
 ye'll find me a mair sicker freen than a 
 safe fae. 
 
 Cubby hesitated to sit down. He had 
 never been seen in that position when any 
 one was in his house ; for he found he got 
 any people who had been lucky enough to 
 get in, out again, more readily by keeping 
 on his len-s. 
 
 " Tm no used sittin' wi' strangers," 
 said he. 
 
 Carey again lifted his finger to the roof 
 of the house, and Cubby's agitation in- 
 creased. Trembling from head to foot, 
 he at last sat down on a three-footed stool, 
 opposite to Carey. 
 
 '' Hae ye heard ony news o' late .^" be- 
 gan Carey. 
 
 " I'm no i' the way o' hearin' news," 
 replied Cubby, " an' care little for the 
 world's clavers besides." 
 
 " But when things concern oorsels," 
 said Carey, " we maun care aboot 
 them.^' 
 
 " What mean ye .^" said Cubby. 
 
 " It's said," rcpliod Carey, looking at 
 him attentively, " that in a house no a 
 
 hunder miles frae the sma' villaofe o' New- 
 abbey there lie the banes o' a woman an' 
 a bairn, whase coffins never saw the mort- 
 claith o' ony parish, or filled the graves o' 
 ony buryin' place. When deaths are 
 concealed, suspicions o' murder are aye 
 rife ; an' I hae heard it even said that 
 simple concealment itsel, at least in ae 
 case, is a guid, if no the only proof o' 
 wilfu' slaughter." 
 
 " What hae 1 to do wi' that, sir.'" said 
 Cubby, whose agitation still increased. 
 
 " Silence !" said Carey, holding up his 
 hand to the roof — " ye may at least hear 
 the gossip o' the village. The banes are 
 in the hoose o' an auld cobbler ; an' it's 
 also said, that, in the place whar they lie, 
 there is an extraordinary collection o' a 
 miser's treasure, filling nae fewer than five 
 big kists, strongly clasped wi' bands o' 
 iron, to protect the gowd guineas, nae less 
 in amount than fifteen thousand pounds. 
 To mak the story mair wonderfu', the gos- 
 sips hae added to the inhabitants o' the 
 strange hoose, a grey owl — nae doot, an 
 invention o' their ain brains." 
 
 " It's a' an invention thegither," ejacu- 
 lated Cubby, rising from his seat, and 
 trying to walk through the apartment, 
 which, however, his trembling and agita- 
 tion prevented him from doing, otherwise 
 than by a zig-zag motion, from one side to 
 another. 
 
 " I think sae mysel," said Carey ; " but 
 we'll see." And he rose and seized, in 
 an instant, a ladder used by Cubby, for 
 the purpose of mounting to his Golgotha. 
 
 " Hauld, sir !" cried the frantic Cubby, 
 as he flew and seized Carey by the legs, 
 fallino; at the same time on his knees, and 
 turning up his grey eyes, now, like his 
 own owl's, darting forth fire. " Wh:it is 
 this ye're aboot ? Wha are ye .' What 
 ken ye o' thac dark things .- — I mean there 
 is naething there. Hauld, sir ! or ye'll 
 kill an auld man wha micht be yer fai- 
 ther.'' And he fell on the floor, groan- 
 in«- and rollinir about, like one in a con- 
 vulsion. 
 
THii MISER OF NE\^^ABBEy. 
 
 233 
 
 " I will lay down this laddor," said 
 Carey, " if you will risy, an' sit down, an' 
 sp3ak to me on certain subjects that con- 
 cern me and yot* " 
 
 " 1 will, I will,'' replied Cubby, recov 
 ering slightly. " {'11 sit qui.jtly an' h;;ar 
 ye speak o' onything but thae village gos- 
 sips. Nao lamb will bo more peaceable ; 
 an' — an' ye'Il hae something too— to tak 
 wi' ye when ye gae awa." 
 
 " Ye mean ane o' yer three guid far- 
 thins, I suppose .^" said Carey, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Ay, ril make it a gowd guinea," said 
 the other, with an effort like to choke 
 him. 
 
 " Weel, 1st that alane,'' said Carey; 
 " we'll maybe mak it mair. Ye now see 
 that 1 ken a' the secret that lies i' that 
 garret. I hae seen it wi' my ain een, an' 
 heard it frae yer dochter, wha is noo my 
 lawfu' married wife — a guid match to her 
 seein' I am the third son o' William 
 Cuthbert o' Cubbert^croft " 
 
 " ?>'Iy dochtor married to ane o' the 
 Cubberts o' Cubbertscroft !" ejaculated 
 Cubby. " Then hae the tw^a stocks at 
 last joined. Keaven be praised !" 
 
 " It is clear, then," continued Carey, 
 " that you are completely in my power. 
 On going to Gilbert Sleuthia, the j&scal o' 
 the county, an' layin' my statement afore 
 him, his first step will be to seize the 
 banes an' the gowd. Ye will be tried for 
 the murder o' the unhappy beings whase 
 bodies they ance supported ; an\ whether 
 ye be guilty or innocent, j^e'll hae some 
 difficulty o' getting oot o' the hands o' 
 the law the fifteen thousand guineas I saw 
 ye count wi' my ain een ; an', even were 
 ye to get it back, it will spread through- 
 out the country that Cubby Grindstane 
 has £1 ■',0{ 0, an' a' the stouthrievors o' 
 the country will be on ye like bluid- 
 hounds, to ease ye o' the burden o' 
 kcepin't. 
 
 " But ye'll no gang to Gilbert Sleu- 
 thie, the fiscal ?" cried Cubby, rising 
 ao-ain into one of his paroxysms of terror, 
 
 and seizing Carey by the knees " It's no 
 in the heart o' ane wi' that face o' yours 
 to ruin a puir auld man, wha you say is 
 your faither-in-law. I ken ye winna do"t. 
 The guinea I'll mak twa, an' maybe a half 
 mair. Say ye winna gang, an' Til mak 
 it three, iviercy ! mercy !" 
 
 With the greatest difficulty Carey got 
 him to bt go the firm grasp he had of his 
 legs ; and which he seemed inclined to 
 hold till he got his request granted. 
 
 " It isna by ony sic bribes as thae, 
 Cuthbert Grandison, that I will be divert- 
 ed frae my purpose." 
 
 " What will please ye, then .-" cried 
 Cubby, earn'^stly. 
 
 " A condition for yer ain benefit," re- 
 plied Carey. " Have ye no sense enough 
 to see that the money ye hoard in thae kists 
 yields ye nae interest, and, besides, rins 
 the risk o' being taen frae ye the very 
 moment it is kenned (an' it's already sus- 
 pected) ye hae t.'^ 
 
 A groan w^as all the answer Cubby 
 could give ; for denying the money was 
 now out of the question. 
 
 " Now I am to put you on a plan," con- 
 tinued Carey, " wharby ye may get a guid 
 return for yer money, an' nae man can 
 tak it frae ye." 
 
 Another groan evinced the agony of 
 the suffarer. 
 
 " Here," continued Carey, taking from 
 his pocket the advertisement of Cubberts-- 
 croft. " Here is my father's property for 
 sale on Wednesday next. It will, in all 
 likelihood, be thrown awa. Tak yer siller 
 to the bank o' Dumfies, an' lodge it 
 there, then gang to the Hall, an' buy 
 Cubbertscroft ; an' wha will venture to 
 rin awa wi' that frae ye .^" 
 
 " But ye are wrang aboot the siller," 
 cried Cubby — " there's no sae muckle o't 
 as ye say." 
 
 " 1 will count it mvsol," cried Carey, 
 pointing to the ladder. " I heard you 
 count it before." 
 
 "Weel, wsel," repli-d Cubby, "I'll 
 think o' what ye've said." 
 
234 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " ril wait yer answer the morn,"'' said 
 Carey. " if ye dinna agree, I'll write in- 
 stantly to Sleuthie." 
 
 Carey then loft him ; but, with the de- 
 termination of watchino; the house duiing 
 the night, to prevent any attempt at re- 
 moving the chests. 
 
 " Mercy on me 1" said Cubby to him- 
 self, when Carey went out, " what am I 
 to do r I canna remove thae kists, an' 
 whar can I tak them .'' My secrofs oot ; 
 an', whether that callant tells Sleuthie or 
 no, it's clear I canna keep langer this sil- 
 ler in a ihatched cotta2;e. Let me see — 
 buy Cubbertscroft, the property o' the 
 freens o' my mither, whase name I bear ? 
 Aften hae 1 heard her say, puir cratur ! 
 that she couldna live an' see Cubbertscroft 
 sauld and gien awa to strangers ; and noo 
 t~ at is aboot to be — at a time, too, when, 
 strange to ssij ! my doehter is married to 
 a Cubbert — the callant's no far wrang. 
 The banes o' my wife an' bairn, wham 1 
 couldna find in my heart to bury, hae 
 kept my gowd lang safe frae the ee o' my 
 doehter ; but they may noo lead Sleuthie 
 to my coffers- What's to be done ? My 
 gowd ! my gowd ! 1 eanna pairt we ye ; 
 for ye are dearer to me than my 
 heart's blude. But, if it wad pain me to 
 gie ye awa for land whilk has nae king's 
 face on't, what wad I feel to hae ye taen 
 frae me by force ! I canna bear that 
 thought. Buy Cubbertscroft ! Cubby 
 Grindstane gie awa his gowd for Cub- 
 bertscroft ! — awfu' thought ! But it was 
 my mither's wish — an' better land than 
 nae thing. I maun think niair on't." 
 
 Carey called next day, and again laid 
 before the old man the danger of not 
 complying with the request. Cubby him- 
 self had been shaken fearfully during the 
 night with the terror of losing altogether 
 his wealth ; and the arguments of Carey 
 almost decided him. He said he would 
 again consider of it, and if he came to the 
 conclusion of buying Cubbertscroft, he 
 would be at the place of sale on the day 
 and hour appointed. Carey left him, and 
 
 continued his watch at night. About 
 twelve o'clock, he observed a cart and a 
 horse standing; at the door of the cotta^re ; 
 and when all the inhabitants of th j villa'-'e 
 
 c 
 
 were at rest, he observed the miser carry- 
 ina; out his coffers and placins; them on 
 the cart. He allowed him to proceed. 
 The cart was loaded ; and, in a short 
 time, he saw it take the road to Dumfries. 
 He followed close behind, and was sur- 
 prised to find that Cubby drove straight 
 up to the house of the cashier of the prin- 
 cipal bank of the town. By knocking 
 hard, he roused the servants ; in a little 
 time the banker came out, the cart was 
 unloaded, and a transaction finished. 
 
 The day arrived on which the sale of 
 Cubbertscroft was to take place. A great 
 number of people was collected. Carey 
 was there, and he was surprised to find 
 his father ; who, however, had attended 
 with the hope of getting some friend to 
 buy in the property on his account. The 
 two looked at each other without speaking. 
 John Monilaws was also present, as well 
 as some others of the inhabitants of New- 
 abbey. The auctioneer mounted into his 
 desk ; and d£12,000 had been ofi'ered for 
 the property by a neighboring laird, who 
 wished to incorporate it with his own 
 land. Some other individuals bade, and 
 the bodes had arrived at £14,000 — no one 
 being inclined to go beyond it. At this 
 moment the door of the room opened, 
 with a harsh noise, and the people looked 
 around, to observe the cause of the inter- 
 ruption. Cubby Grindstane entered. A 
 feeling of surprise ran through the crowd. 
 John Monilaws stared, and Carey smiled. 
 Stepping forward, Cubby watched the 
 voice of the auctioneer. The latter called 
 out £14,000. 
 
 " Five shillings mair !" cried Cubby. 
 
 " You must make it five pounds, sir," 
 said the auctioneer. 
 
 " Aweel, aweel, then," said Cubby — 
 " let it be five pounds." 
 
 The surprise of the people increased to 
 wonder. Every one whispered to his 
 
THE PIRATE. 
 
 235 
 
 neighbor — " Is he mad ? Why does the 
 auctioneer take his bode ?"' No one bade 
 higher, and the hammer fell. 
 
 " Are you able to find caution, sir r" 
 said the auctioneer. 
 
 '' No," replied Cubby. 
 
 " Why did you bid for the land, then ?" 
 rejoined the other. 
 
 " Because I wanted it," replied Cubby. 
 '^ Will ye no tak the siller in place o' 
 caution ?'' 
 
 " Assuredly," replied the auctioneer, 
 smiling — " where is it .?" 
 
 " There," said Cubby, " is the bank- 
 er's check for i£14,000. The moment I 
 get a complete right to the land, ye may 
 hae the siller.'' 
 
 The bargain was, accordingly, soon ar- 
 
 ranged ; and, to the surprise of all that 
 part of the country, Cuthbert Grandison 
 became the laird of Cubbertscroft. His 
 feelings subsequently underwent some 
 change for the better, and he took home 
 his daughter Jeanie and her husband, to 
 live with him in the mansion-house, where, 
 however, he still exhibited a great portion 
 of his original avarice. He soon died, 
 and the property was left to Jeanie. 
 Carey Cuthbert had, by the right of cour- 
 tesy, all the power of the property. He 
 received with welcome his father and 
 mother, and maintained them during their 
 lives in the mansion-house from which 
 they had formerly expelled him, and from 
 which their own extravagance had driven 
 themselves. 
 
 THE PIRATE. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1705, a large 
 square-rigged vessel was seen beating up 
 the Frith of Forth. She was yet at a 
 considerable distance ; but her large size 
 and peculiarity of appearance had excited 
 a good deal of curiosity amongst the 
 idlers, chiefly old seamen, who were *saun- 
 tering on the pier. 
 
 " Can you make her out. Bob .==" said 
 one, addressing a neighbor, who was ear- 
 nestly contemplating the approaching ship 
 through an old spying-glass which he had 
 rested on the bulwark of the pier. 
 
 " No, I can't," replied the man to whom 
 the query was put. " She's a total stran- 
 ger ; but there seems to be a good deal of 
 the devil about her. She has a rakish 
 look, that an honest ship shouldn't have. 
 However, she's a smart craft, be she what 
 she may." 
 
 In the meantime, the subject of these 
 remarks was rapidly neariug her apparent 
 
 destination, Leith Roads, where, in less 
 than half an hour after, she came to an- 
 chor. 
 
 The stranger, after all, however, proved 
 to be only the Worcester^ Captain Green, 
 an East India trader, on her way to that 
 quarter of the world, and who had put 
 into Leith merely for the purpose of pro- 
 curing a further supply of water before 
 proceeding on her voyage. 
 
 For several years previous to this pe- 
 riod, the Worcester ^ which was an English 
 ship, had been emploj^ed in trading to and 
 from various parts of the East Indies, but 
 chiefly with the coast of Malabar, from 
 which she had brought several rich and 
 valuable cargoes to England. 
 
 Her purpose in coming to Leith Roads 
 being merely to water, it was intended 
 that she should sail again on the following 
 day. 
 
 On the following day, accordingly, Cap- 
 
236 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 tain Green made preparations for getting 
 his ship under weigh, and resuming his 
 voyage ; and they wore thus employed on 
 board the vessel, when a boat was descried 
 rowing towards them. 
 
 She came alongside, when two persons 
 of the appearance of messengers or bai- 
 liffs sprung on board, and asked which was 
 the captain. 
 
 A stout thickset man, of a dark swarthy 
 complexion, and determined countenance, 
 rolled up in a huge dreadnought coat, with 
 immense horn buttons, answered the query 
 by stepping forward, and saying in a gruff 
 voice — 
 
 "I am captain of the ship, my mas- 
 ters ; what dye want?" 
 
 " To inform you, captain," replied one 
 of the messengers, " that we lay this ship 
 under arrest, by virtue of a precept from 
 the Scotch Court of Admiralty, at the 
 instance of the Indian and African Com- 
 pany of Scotland." 
 
 " Ay, ay, my hearties," replied Captain 
 Green, turning an enormous quid of to- 
 bacco in his mouth. " That's your game, 
 is it ? And pray, what do you arrest my 
 ship for ?" 
 
 " You will learn that shortly," said the 
 
 first speaker. " In the meantime" 
 
 '' Nay, nay," said Green, interrupting 
 him — '' 1 must know it presently." 
 
 " Well, 1 believe then," replied the 
 man, " that it is by way of reprisal for the 
 capture, the other day, of a Scottish ship 
 by an English vessel." 
 
 " Umph," exclaimed Green, doggedly; 
 " and I'm to be made the scapegoat of 
 the affair, am I ? Why, see ye now, my 
 masters,'' continued Green, without wait- 
 ing for any reply, " it would be an easy 
 matter for me, and 1 have a great mind to 
 do it too, to pitch you both into the sea, 
 and get under weigh in defiance of your 
 precept, as you call it ; but, as that mi.,ht 
 lead to trouble, and as I expect to get 
 swinging damages for my detention, 1 don't 
 mind your clapping a stopper on me for a 
 day or two." 
 
 Having thus obtained the captain's con- 
 sent to their executing their duty — which 
 last they would have found somewhat diffi- 
 cult without the former — the men went 
 through the forms of law which the case 
 demanded, and concluded by intimating to 
 Captain Green that they were instructed 
 to have the vessel conveyed to Burnt- 
 island ; and thither she was accordingly 
 taken. 
 
 Jn the meantime, and before the vessel 
 arrived at the latter place. Captain Green, 
 after expressing his willingness to submit 
 to the order of the Scotch Court of Ad- 
 miralty, descended to the cabin, where he 
 found his steward, whose name was Haines, 
 sitting as pale as death, and evidently in a 
 state of dreadful alarm. 
 
 On seeing the man in this condition, 
 Green burst into a loud laugh, exclaim- 
 ing; — 
 
 "So, I suppose, Haines, you thought 
 we were had, eh ? You thought these 
 fellows had come to call us to an account 
 and reckoning for our pranks." 
 
 " Is it not so .?" said Haines, with a 
 ghastly gravity and sepulchral tone. " 
 thank God ! — thank God ! I did think in- 
 deed, captain, that our day of retribution 
 was come. What, then, did these men 
 want r" 
 
 Green informed him, adding sternly — 
 
 " Now, Haines, no more of this canting 
 of yours ; this cowardly trembling and 
 shadng when anything in the slightest 
 degree out of the way occurs. VVhy, 
 man, who do you think is to harm us, if 
 we don't harm ourselves ? None to bo 
 sure. But that infernal face of yours, 
 that gets as white as a newl}-bent topsail, 
 when any stranger comes suddenly athwart 
 you, is enough to blow us all." 
 
 " O captaia, captain I" exclaimed 
 Haines, who seemed to be laboring undor 
 some dreadful depression of mind, which 
 the assurance he had just had of the real 
 purpose of their visitors had relieved, but 
 I could not entirely remove, " how can I 
 help it ? How can a man with such a loa 1 
 
THE PIRATE. 
 
 237 
 
 of guilt on his conscience as I have, as we 
 all have, be like other men ? How can he 
 command himself? How can he conceal 
 the dreadful workino-s of a tortured soul ? 
 O that frightful day, captain ! that fright- 
 ful day ! Would to God 1 had been buried 
 in the ocean, a thousand fathoms deep, 
 before that dreadful day had arisen." 
 
 " Bah, you jabbering fool," exclaimed 
 Green, contemptuously ; "have you be- 
 gun your old croaking again ? Are you 
 going to preach, you cowardly scoundrel, 
 eh ? Haines, 1 tell you, once more, what 
 it is," said Green, bursting into a sudden 
 fit of passion, and fiercely striking with his 
 huge horny fist a pistol-case that stood on 
 the table, " 1 tell you once more what it 
 is — if you don't mend your manners — if 
 you don't contrive to get quit of that 
 hang-dog look of yours, that is enough of 
 itself to brinjT; a dozen better men than 
 yourself to the gallows — may I be blasted 
 if I be not the death of you. Yes, by 
 heavens!" he went on, at the same time 
 tearing open the pistol case, and drawing 
 forth one of the deadly weapons it con- 
 tained, and pointing it at the head of his 
 steward, " I'll blow your brains out, as 
 sure as your name is John Haines, and 
 mine is Thomas Green. So look to your- 
 self. I give you fair warning." 
 
 Saying this, he replaced the pistol in 
 its case, and re-ascended the deck. 
 
 Leavinfv the Worcester in the harbor of 
 Burntisland, under the arrestment of the 
 Scotch Court of Admiralty, we change 
 the scene to Edinburgh, and to the house 
 of one Drummond, a respectable tailor 
 and clothier, who resided in the Lawn- 
 market. 
 
 This person had a son who followed the 
 profession of the sea, and was in command 
 of a brig that sailed from Newcastle to 
 foreign parts. 
 
 About two years previous to the com- 
 mencement of our story, Captain Drum- 
 mond had sailed for the East Indies ; but 
 no tidinis of his arrival there had ever 
 reached his owners. Months and months 
 
 flew away, and still no intelligence of the 
 missing ship couM be obtained. The last 
 and only trace of her that had yet come 
 to the knowledsre of those interested in 
 her fate was, her having been spoken off 
 the Cape of Good Hope by a homeward- 
 bound ship. 
 
 At that time, all was well on board the 
 Uxbridgey the name of Drummond's ves- 
 sel, and she was pursuing her voyage pros- 
 perously. From that momenx, however, 
 no more had been heard of her ; and fears 
 were, in consequence, beginning to be en- 
 tertained that she had foundered at sea. 
 
 It was while matters were in this pain- 
 ful situation regarding the Uxbridge — 
 when all those who had friends on board 
 of her, or who were otherwise interested in 
 her fate, were living in a state of the most 
 harrowing suspense — that information 
 reached Mr. Drummond s family in Edin- 
 burgh, that there was a vessel in Burnt- 
 island that had lately returned from the 
 East Indies ; and the person who gave 
 this information advised Mr. Drummond 
 to lose no time in seeing the captain, as 
 there was a probability that he might be 
 able to give some intelligence of the Ux- 
 bridge. 
 
 Acting on this advice, although with no 
 very sanguine hopes of learning anything 
 of his son, Mr. Drummond, accompanied 
 by another son and a daughter, immedi- 
 ately set out for Burntisland, where they 
 found the Worcester, which, we need not 
 say, was the ship alluded to by Drum- 
 mond's informant. 
 
 The party now went on board of the 
 latter. When they did so. Captain Green 
 was standing on the quarter-deck, from 
 which he eyed them with a look of sullen 
 scrutiny, and without attempting advances 
 of any kind. 
 
 Mr. Drummond, leaving his son and 
 daughter at the fore part of the vessel, ad- 
 vanced alons towards Green, who sulkily 
 awaited his approach. 
 
 " Well, friend," he at length said, 
 " what may be your business on board my 
 
238 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ship ? Have you got anything to say to 
 me .'" 
 
 Disconcerted by the gruif uncourteous 
 ness of his reception, it was a s-^cond or 
 two before Mr, Drummond could reply. 
 At length — 
 
 " I shall be sorry, Sir," he said, '' if 
 my coming on board your ship is consid- 
 ered an intrusion ; but, I think, you will 
 excuse me when 1 tall you my errand. I 
 have a son, a sailor like yourself, Sir, who 
 left Newcastle some two years ago, on a 
 
 voyage to the East Indies, and " 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Green, interrupting 
 him ; " and you expect me to be able to 
 tell you all about him, I fancy. Every- 
 body seems to think that I can give every 
 information about every ship that crosses 
 the line. One would think they took the 
 high seas to be a turnpike road, where 
 you can hail every one that passes 
 you." 
 
 To this objurgation Mr. Drummond 
 made no reply, but proceeded to say that 
 he hoped it would be no offc^nce to ask 
 him if he had met with or heard anything 
 of a vessel called the Uxbridge, Captain 
 Drummond of Newcastle. 
 
 The question was apparently a simple 
 enough one, yet it was one which seemed 
 to have a very strange effect on him to 
 whom it was addressed. The dark blood 
 rushed to his swarthy forehead, while his 
 lips became pale and tremulous ; and it 
 was some seconds before he could make 
 any reply. 
 
 At length, clearing his throat, with a 
 short cough or two, from the huskiness 
 which his sudden agitation had caused, 
 " Drummond," he said — " one Captain 
 Drummond. How should I know about 
 Captain Drummond ? What do you come 
 to me inquiring about Captain Drummond 
 for ?" 
 
 Silenced by this brutal treatment, Mr. 
 Drummond, without saying another word, 
 left Green, a.nd rejoined his son and 
 daughter, who were waiting in great anx- 
 iety the result of their father's interview 
 
 with the captain of the Worcester j on the 
 fore part of the vessel. 
 
 To their eager inquiry whether he had 
 heard any tidings of thjir brother, Mr. 
 Drummond replied, that he had got none 
 whatever. That the captain either would 
 not, or could not tell anything at all about 
 the Uxbrid'je; and that his conduct, 
 altogether, was brutal and ferocious. 
 
 Disheartened and disappointed by this 
 result of their journey, the trio now left 
 the ship, with the intention of returning 
 immediately to Leith. 
 
 On making inquhy, however, they found 
 that no passage boat would cross that 
 night and that, therefore, they should be 
 obliged to remain in Burntisland until the 
 following day. 
 
 It being now well on in the afternoon, 
 the party began to look around them for 
 respectable quarters for the night, and 
 finally fixed on a clean and decent public- 
 house kept by a person of the name of 
 Seaton. 
 
 Into this house, then, they accordingly 
 went, and were shown into a respectably- 
 furnished apartment — a sort of public 
 room — where they had some refreshment. 
 This was served by the landlord himself — 
 a circumstance which afforded Mr. D.um- 
 mond an opportunity of making some 
 inquiries of him regarding the U orest<r 
 and her captain, the subject naturally up- 
 permost in his mind. Having informed 
 the landlord of the purpose of his vi^it to 
 Burntisland, and of the reception he had 
 met with from Green, the former shook 
 his head, and said — 
 
 " Ay, he's a strange man that Green. 
 I never saw a more dangerous-looking cus- 
 tomer. He comes here sometimes ; but 
 my people are all afraid of him, he has 
 such a boisterous overbearing way with 
 him. His crew, too, seem to me to be all 
 of the same kidney. 1 hey are the most 
 reckless, dare-devil sort of follows I ever 
 met Avith." 
 
 '^ Is she a regular trader .^" said Mr. 
 Drummond— meanins: the Worcester. 
 
THE PIRATE. 
 
 239 
 
 The landlord shook his head, and smiled 
 significantly. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, " I suppose 
 she is. But there is something strange 
 about the whole concern — something 1 
 don''t quite understand. 1 have overheard 
 such things passing amongst her men, 
 when they were here diinking, that I can't 
 tell what to think of them." 
 
 " What do you suspect them of being .^" 
 said Mr. Drummond. 
 
 " Why, it wouldn't be just safe to say 
 that," replied Soaton ; " besides, it 
 migfitn't be true ; and then one might be 
 brought into trouble, you know. That 
 man Green, were I to say anything to his 
 prejudice, would, I believe, cut my throat 
 as fast as he'd eat a biscuit ; and, I'm 
 convinced, there's not one of his crew but 
 would do the same thing just as readily." 
 
 '' Ah ! I see," replied Drummond, 
 laughingly ; " you suspect them of pira- 
 cy. Don't you, landlord .?" 
 
 '' Perhaps I do, and perhaps I do not," 
 said the latter, with a smile. 
 
 At this moment, the ringing of a bell 
 called the landlord away, which put an 
 end to the conversation. 
 
 It was about an hour after this, that a 
 person having something the appearance 
 of a sailor, yet not having altogether the 
 manner of one, entered the apartment in 
 which were Drummond and his son and 
 dau2:hter. The intruder's look and bear- 
 ins had somethinDr in them odd and pecu- 
 liar. His eye was restless, and constant- 
 ly glancing about with an expression of 
 suspicion and alarm. He said not a word 
 on entering ; but, with downcast look and 
 stealthy step, slunk into a seat at the fur- 
 ther end of the table at which Drummond 
 and his son and daughter were sittino;. 
 
 Having taken his place, he ordered in 
 a large measure of brandy and water. On 
 its being produced, he mixed it up in a 
 large rummer, and swallowed the whole 
 at one draught with desperate eagerness. 
 He then ordered another measure of liquor 
 to be brought him, which he also tossed 
 
 off with the same greedy appetite — his 
 object, apparently, being to get drunk as 
 fast as possible. Still he had not spoken 
 a word beyond the necessary orders to the 
 servant who attended ; but the scowlins; and 
 furtive glances he, from time to time, took 
 of the persons at the other end of the table, 
 showed not only that he was keenly alive 
 to their presence, but that he viewed them 
 with some anxiety and suspicion, although 
 what the latter coulS refer to none but 
 himself could conjecture. 
 
 In a short time, the effects of the liquor 
 which the stranger had swallowed became 
 apparent in his manner, which underwent 
 a sudden but not unpleasant change. 
 From being morose and sullen, he be- 
 came lively and cheerful ; held up his 
 head boldly and frankly, and contempla- 
 ted his fellow-guests with an open and 
 conciliatory look. The brandy, in short, 
 seemed to have driven out the evil spirit 
 which had hitherto oppressed and born-e 
 him down. 
 
 " Fine night, master,'' he now said, 
 addressing the elder Drummond. 
 
 " Fine night. Sir," repeated the latter. 
 " I dare say you belong to the Worces- 
 ter?'" 
 
 " Yes I do," said the stranger. '* I am 
 steward of her, and my name's Jack 
 Haines all the world over. Known at Porto 
 Rico ; known at Juan Fernandez ; known 
 at Telicherry ; known at Bombay ; known 
 at Sumatra ; known at every corner of the 
 world. 1 have gathered cocoa-nuts at 
 Otaheite ; hunted alligators on the Mis- 
 sissippi ; chased monkeys on the rock of 
 Gibraltar ; gathered gold-dust on the coast 
 of Guinea ; and heaven knows where all." 
 
 " Ay ; you have seen a good deal of the 
 world, no doubt," replied Mr. Drummond. 
 " Aren't you from the Indian seas lately .^" 
 he added. 
 
 " Yes — to be sure we are," said Haines, 
 with an air as if suddenly brought on his 
 guard ; "and what of that .?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing — only that I was going 
 to ask you if you could give me any infor- 
 
240 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 mation regarding a ship that went to those 
 S3as about two years ago." 
 
 " Oh, 1 know nothing about ships — 
 nothing about any ship but my own," re- 
 plied HaineSj with a contemptuous indif- 
 ference. 
 
 " But, probably, you may have heard 
 something of this ship, nevertheless," 
 persevered Mr. Drumraond — " the Ux- 
 bridge, Captain Drummond .^''' 
 
 "The what!" shouted Haines, in a 
 tone where vehemence seemed intended to 
 conceal or distract attention fjom a sud- 
 den trepidation of which the speaker be- 
 came conscious, and which was also evi- 
 dent to those present. 
 
 Mr. Drummond repeated the name of 
 the missing vessel and her captain. 
 
 Haines instantly relapsed into his for- 
 mer sullcnness, hung down his head, and, 
 in a low gruff tone, muttered that be knew 
 nothino- of her. From this moment, he 
 seemed acjain lost in thouj!;ht, and took no 
 fiirther notice of the pa ty present. In 
 tliis musing fit he continued for some time, 
 with his hands thrust into his breeches' 
 pockets, his legs stretched out at full 
 length, and his eyes fixed on the empty 
 drinking vessels that stood before him. 
 
 At the end of about a quarter of an 
 hour, however, he again wakened sudden- 
 ly up ; and, gazing on the party at the 
 opposite end of the table with a look in 
 which distraction and intoxication appear- 
 ed in fearful combination, exclaimed, in a 
 solemn voice — 
 
 " The vengeance of heaven shall surely 
 overtake the wicked ! the blood of the 
 murdered will rise in judgment against the 
 murderer !" Then rising from his seat, and 
 advancino; towards the elder Drummond, 
 he took him by the arm, and, conducting 
 him to the window, pointed to the Worces- 
 ter^ which was lying in the harbor direct- 
 ly opposite the house, and said in a low 
 whisper — " See you that ship there — that 
 old, black, hell-smoked hulk ! Well, there 
 has been a deed done onboard that thrice- 
 accursed vessel, during this last voyage, 
 
 that was enough to have sunk her to the 
 lowest depths of perdition ; and to render 
 it a marvel beyond all comprehension, that, 
 ■since the sea has not engulfed us, the 
 ground, since we came ashore, has not 
 opened up and swallowed us ! Oh ! it was 
 a foul deed ! We did it with hatchets. 
 We struck them down, one after the other, 
 like bullocks. We clove their skulls, be- 
 spattering our bulwarks with their brains, 
 and drenchino; our decks with their blood. 
 There now," added Haines, throwing off 
 his auditor with some violence — " there's 
 a story for you. But it is a secret ; men- 
 tion it to no one." Then again calling 
 Mr. Drummond Towards him, he whisper- 
 ed in his ear — " I'll tell you another se- 
 cret. You will be curious to know who 
 they were whom we butchered with our 
 hatchets .'' It was' — and here his voice 
 sunk lower still — " It was Captain Drum- 
 mond and his crew — Captain Drummond 
 of the Uxbridge y the very man you were 
 inquiring about. As sure as heaven, he 
 was the man " 
 
 Haines here withdrew a pace, and nod- 
 ded and smiled to Mr. Diummond, as if 
 to repeat assurance of the truth of his 
 statement. Believing the man to be either 
 drunk or mad, or buth, Mr. Drummond 
 did not take that alarm at the wild and 
 incoherent statements which had been just 
 made to him that he would otherwise have 
 done, yet he could not help their making 
 a very painful impression on him ; neither, 
 putting everything together that he had 
 seen and heard since he came to Burnt- 
 island, could he help thinking that some 
 deed of darkness or other hung over the 
 Worcester and her crew. That that deed 
 included the murder of his own son, how- 
 ever, he did not for a moment imagine ; 
 for he deemed that Haines had merely 
 made use of the names because he himself 
 had given them. 
 
 INIr. Drummond's son and daughter had 
 overheard the most of what had passed 
 between their father and Haines, but not 
 the latter's declaration that their brother 
 
THE PIRATE. 
 
 241 
 
 was one of the murdered victims ; and tins 
 part of his communication their father 
 thought it as well for the present to con- 
 ceal from them. In the meantime, Haines 
 had left the apai-tment, and they saw no 
 more of him. 
 
 On the following day, Mr. Druramond 
 and his son and daughter returned to 
 Edinburgh. It was the former's intention, 
 at first, to take no farther notice of what 
 had occurred at Burntisland ; but the 
 more he thought of t-he strange conduct of 
 both the captain and steward of the Wor- 
 cester^ and of the dreadful language of the 
 latter, the more alarmed and uneasy he 
 became. 
 
 Urged by this feeling and the painful 
 state of his mind, he at length determined, 
 without mentioning the matter to any one 
 else, on seeking a personal interview with 
 the Lord Advocate, and of stating to him 
 all that had occurred. This he accord- 
 ingly did. The Lord Advocate was struck 
 with the relation, and at once gave it as 
 his opinion that an atrocious crime of some 
 kind or another had been committed, and 
 that the matter ought instantly to be in- 
 quired into. 
 
 Acting on this opinion, such inquiries 
 were immediately set on foot, and a case 
 of strong suspicion of piracy and murder 
 was made out. The consequence was, ihat 
 
 a strong party of men, accompanied by 
 several criminal officers, were immediate- 
 ly dispatched to Burntisland ; when Cap- 
 tain Green, his steward, Haines, and the 
 whole crew of the Worcester , amounting 
 to thirteen in number, were apprehended 
 and brought over prisoners to Edinburgh. 
 
 On the following oth March, 1705, they 
 were brought to trial ; when it was proven 
 against them, that they had attacked and 
 captured, on the coast of Malabar, a 
 Scotch vessel called the Uxbridge, Cap- 
 tain Drummond. That, having taken this 
 vessel, they carried her crew aboard the 
 Worcester, where they murdered them 
 one by one with hatchets, and threw their 
 bodies into the sea ; and that, thereafter, 
 they carried the Uxbridge into a port on 
 the coast of INIalabar, and sold the vessel 
 and cargo to a native merchant there. 
 
 These charges being proven, the whole 
 were condemned to death ; but three of 
 the number only were subsequently exe- 
 cuted — namely. Captain Green, his first 
 mate, and the gunner, who were hung on 
 Leith Sands on the 4th April, 1705. The 
 remainder of the crew, including Haines 
 — the chief instrument in bringing this 
 atrocious case to light — were respited from 
 time to time, in consideration of certain 
 extenuating circumstances, and finally 
 pardoned. 
 
 \r^ 
 
242 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE LAI 11 D OF BALLACHIE. 
 
 The gentleman — we give him a title by 
 way of courtesy — whose designation heads 
 our story, was one of the wealthiest land- 
 ed proprietors in the north of Scotland. 
 His possessions were extensive, and in- 
 cluded some of the most valuable land, as 
 well as finest scenery of which the High- 
 lands can boast. 
 
 In person, the Laird of Ballachie was 
 extremely handsome. He stood about six 
 feet high, was well made, and possessed 
 great physical strength. His countenance 
 was manly, and pleasing in its expression, 
 and his manner singularly fascinating — 
 frank, free, and open. Unfortunately, 
 however, the character and disposition of 
 Ballachie but little corresponded with those 
 agreeable qualities : he was an immoral 
 and wild living man ; in the worst sense 
 of the word, a profligate ; and so notori- 
 ous for his hbertinism, that he was con- 
 sidered by the neighboring gentlemen, as 
 by no means a fit person to associate with 
 theu' wives or daughters, or to be admitted 
 as a guest at their tables. 
 
 Ballachie, at the time we take up his 
 story, was about thirty-five or forty years 
 of ao-e. He was unmarried, and kept 
 Bachelor Hall at a place called M'^ny- 
 garvin, his famUy residence— a fine old 
 mansion, delightfully situated on the brow 
 of a hill that overlooked the sea. The 
 housekeeping of the laird was rude and 
 boisterous in the last degree. Huge eating 
 and deep drinking closed each uproarious 
 day ; and never were there wanting guests 
 enow to keep the master of the feast in 
 countenance in his wildest debaucheries. 
 These flocked around hmi in dozens, as 
 vultures congregate around the carrion of 
 the battle-field ; and no day passed that 
 the Laird of Ballachie 's dinner table was 
 not thronged with a crowd of guests, as 
 reckless and as dissipated as himself. 
 
 At this period there lived on the estate 
 of the laird a tenant of the name of Mur- 
 doch Morrison, a man generally reputed 
 of rather weak intellect, but of a simple, 
 harmless, and inofi'ensive disposition. ]n 
 person Murdoch was the very opposite of 
 his landlord : he was of low stature, and 
 of a slender, weakly frame. Notwithstand- 
 ing all this, Murdoch had wooed and won 
 — by what sort of necromancy we cannot 
 tell — one of the prettiest girls in the parish. 
 This girl became his wife. People won- 
 dered much at the marriage ; they won- 
 dered that so handsome a young woman 
 should have married so wretched a iookingr 
 being as Mui'doch Morrison — a man so 
 contemptible as regarded both mind and 
 body. But Mui'doch made a good hus- 
 band — kind, affectionate, and indulgent ; 
 and it would have been well had his wife 
 more fully appreciated his worth in these 
 respects, and looked with a more lenient 
 eye than she did on his deficiencies in 
 others. 
 
 It was not until the lapse of many 
 months after his marriage, and until he 
 had found the Laird of Ballachie a very 
 frequent visitor at his house, on occasions 
 when he himself was absent, that vague, 
 indefinite suspicions of the purpose of the 
 laird's visits began to glimmer on the mind 
 of Murdoch Morrison. It was not until 
 he had marked these visits throughout a 
 series of months, and had noted many 
 other circumstances of an equivocal na- 
 ture, that INIui'doch began to suspect the 
 fidelity of his wife. For a long time the 
 shnple and unsuspecting man had deemed 
 the laird's visits an honor. His dull intel- 
 lect and unsuspicious nature were long im- 
 pervious to impressions from circumstances 
 which would have pierced another to the 
 quick, like the stings of so many adders. 
 But their constant recurrence at length 
 
THE LAIRD OF BALLACHIE. 
 
 243 
 
 aroused liis sluggish perceptions, and 
 awakened in him a sense of the injury in- 
 flicted on him. Yet might this never 
 have happened, had not the guilty pair 
 themselves presumed too far on the sim- 
 plicity and stupidity of the injured hus- 
 band ; and treating him with utter con- 
 tempt, negbcted the most ordinary mea- 
 sures of circumspection. 
 
 Excepting, however, in a slight unwont- 
 ed reservedness of manner, Murdoch ex- 
 hibited no indication of the discovery he 
 had made. He said nothino; to his wife 
 on the subject ; and to the laird, his man- 
 ner, with the exception above referred 
 to, was unaltered. But Murdoch was 
 secretly brooding over his wrongs, and 
 slowly but steadily working up his mind 
 to revenge. 
 
 It was while matters were in this state, 
 that the Laird of Ballachie gave a splendid 
 entertainment to a number of his friends, 
 if such term vdll apply to the companions 
 of such a man. The number of guests 
 assembled on this occasion was unusual, 
 and many of them were from a considera- 
 ble distance. It was midsummer, and the 
 day of the feast, as it might be called, ex- 
 tremely sultry. To obviate the inconve- 
 nience of the weather, of which all present 
 complained, the windows of the banqueting 
 hall were thrown open ; and, thus refresh- 
 ed by the breeze from without, the up- 
 roaiious party went joyously on celebrating 
 the orgies of the night. The laird was at 
 the head of his own table, and had just 
 risen with the goblet of wine in his hand 
 to propose some crack toast, when, the 
 window by which he sat being open, his 
 eye fell on the figure of old Archia Downie 
 wending his way towards the house. 
 
 Downie was a very old man — nearly 
 eiglity years of age. In his youth he had 
 been a soldier in the Highland Watch, 
 and still drew a small pension from the 
 government he had served ; but his chief 
 resource was in the benevolence of the in- 
 habitants of his native disti-ict, with whom 
 he was a great favorite. 
 
 The principal of those qualifications 
 which recommended Archie to public 
 patronage, was a knack of story- telling, 
 and the gift of the S2Cond sight, which he 
 was believed to possess in great perfection, 
 besides great skill in divining the future 
 by various other modes and means. 
 
 On seeing the old man approaching, 
 the Laird of Ballachie announced the cir- 
 cumstance to his company, all of whom 
 knew Downie well, with a shout of hilarity, 
 and proposed that he should be introduced, 
 to amuse them with some specimens of his 
 skill in the art of divination. The propo- 
 sal was hailed by an unanimous shout of 
 applause ; and, in the next minute, the 
 old man, hat in hand with his lono; flaxen 
 hair streaming down his back, and led by 
 a serving-man, entered the banqueting 
 apartment. He was received with noisy 
 demonstrations of welcome, which he ac- 
 knowledged by two or three simple obei- 
 sances, but without uttering a word. 
 
 The laird now beckoned Archie towards 
 him. The old man moved up quietly to 
 the upper end of the table. The former 
 ordered a chair to be placed for him be- 
 side himself; and, on Archie taking his 
 seat, presented him with a tumbler of wine. 
 The latter rose to his feet, drank to the 
 health of the company, and resumed his 
 chair. 
 
 '' Now, Archie," said the Laird of 
 Ballachie, " will you favor the gentlemen 
 here present, and I, with a specimen of 
 your second sight ? Select your man, and 
 see if you can foretell anything with re- 
 gard to him. You may begin with myself 
 if you like," 
 
 The old man smiled, but seemed rather 
 reluctant to put his art in practice on the 
 present occasion. On being pressed, how- 
 ever, Downie said that, if the shoulder- 
 blade of a sheep were brought him, he 
 would see what he could do. 
 
 The article he named — and which, it is 
 well known, was in great use in the High- 
 lands as an instrument of divination — was 
 immediately brought, when the old man. 
 
244 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 wiping it clean with the skirt of his old 
 tattered greatcoat, held it up between him 
 and the light, and looked steadily through 
 the semi-transparent bone for several 
 minutes, carefully noting the dark spots 
 and lines which it exhibited — the com- 
 pany, meanwhile, waiting with silent curio- 
 sity for the result. 
 
 Becoming, at length, impatient with the 
 delay, Ballachie began urging the old man 
 to hasten his proceedings. The latter, 
 however, was too intent on the investiga- 
 tion in which he was engaged, to pay any 
 attention to the lairds importunities. He 
 still continued to hold up the bone be- 
 tween him and the light, and to peer into 
 it with an apparently deep and anxious 
 interest. 
 
 At length, however, the old man drop- 
 ped the hand which held the shoulder- 
 blade, but no word followed the proceed- 
 ing. He did not, as was expected, begin 
 to inform the company of what he had 
 seen. 
 
 Marking this, " Archie," said the laird, 
 with a slight smile of derision, " have ye 
 nothing to tell us, man } No deaths, no 
 marriages — eh ?" 
 
 *' Perhaps more of the first than the 
 last !" slowly replied the old man, and 
 with evident reluctance to speak on the 
 subject. 
 
 '' Well, well, come tell us all about it, 
 Archie, man," cried the kiird. " Tell us 
 all that ye have seen. You see the gentle- 
 men are curious to hear." 
 
 " It doesn't signify. I had rather not. 
 I have seen things that I did not expect to 
 see, and am very sorry for !" replied the 
 old man, gravely. 
 
 " What have ye seen ; what have ye 
 seen, Archie .'" shouted one after another 
 of the half- inebriated party. 
 
 " It doesn't matter," again replied 
 Archie. " I've seen the strong overcome 
 by the weak. I have seen the deer de- 
 stroyed by the fumart. I have seen the 
 jutting crags of the precipice dabbled with 
 blood, and the mangled corpse rebounding 
 
 from point to point as it went down, down 
 into the depths below."* 
 
 " What means all this, Archie r" said 
 the Laird of Ballachie, in a husky voice, 
 yet affecting to laugh at the mysterious 
 language of the old soothsayer. " Who 
 point ye at ?" continued the laird. 
 " Which of us is to meet the dismal fate 
 to which you allude ."' 
 
 " I will not say, Laird of Ballachie," 
 replied the old man, " which of you is to 
 dree the doom I have foretold, although I 
 have seen his face, and know him well. 
 But this I will say : if there be one of you 
 who has an enemy whom you despise for 
 his weakness, whom you contemn for his 
 feebleness; one whom you have injured 
 deeply, yet, whose resentment you fear as 
 little as that of the worm on which you 
 have trod ; I say, beware of that enemy, 
 for his vengeance will be sure and fatal. 
 A moment of power will be given him, of 
 which he will avail himself to the destruc- 
 tion of the man who has injured him. I 
 will say no more." 
 
 " Very good, Archie," exclaimed Bal- 
 lachie, with a loud but affected laugh. 
 " So, I fancy, we are to fear the weak and 
 despise the strong, eh .?" 
 
 " As you please, laird," replied the old 
 man coolly, " 1 have said my say, and 
 have done.'' 
 
 Although there were but few of those 
 present on this occasion who put much 
 faith in such divinations as Archie Dow- 
 nie's, and none who despised them more 
 than Ballachie himself, yet could none of 
 them stay the influence of a certain un- 
 pleasant feeling which the old man's prog- 
 
 ♦The perfect fulfilment of this prophecy, which 
 the sequel of the tale exhibits, will naturally sug- 
 gest to the enlightened reader the reflection that 
 such coincidence must either have been the result 
 of pure accident, as exemplified in man)'' similar 
 cases, or, what is equally likely, and has equally 
 often happened, have proceeded from previous 
 knowledge. In all probabilirj', the soothsayer, in 
 the present case, was aware of the injury done to 
 Morrison, and knew that he was meditating ven- 
 geaiice, — Ed. 
 
THE LAIRD OP BALLACHIE. 
 
 245 
 
 nostications had given rise to. All felt it ; 
 and, notwithstanding his contempt for 
 such things, none more strongly than the 
 laird. 
 
 Some further attempts were made to 
 induce Archie to point out the individual 
 to whom his mysterious divinations refer- 
 red, but to no purpose. This particular 
 the old man would on no account disclose. 
 Shortly after he left the apartment, being 
 despatched by the laird to the kitchen to 
 get some refreshment. 
 
 For some time after the departure of 
 old Archie Downie, the damp, which his 
 prophetic warning had thrown on the 
 spirits of the company, continued to 
 oj)erate, and to suggest some grave re- 
 marks on the subject of divination. It 
 also produced some very curious and some 
 very appalling anecdotes of the realization 
 of such prognostications. 
 
 During this time, every one present was 
 busy running over in his mind the list of 
 his real or supposed enemies, to see if 
 there was one amongst them who answered 
 the description given by Downie ; but 
 none, excepting one, could recollect of 
 any particularly despicable person with 
 whom they stood in a hostile relation. 
 This one, this exception, was the Laird of 
 Ballachie ; and he immediately thought of 
 Murdoch Morrison ; but, it was only to 
 laugh at the idea of that person's ever be- 
 ing able to do him an injury. 
 
 In the meantime, the spirits of the com- 
 pany gradually returned ; and, ere another 
 half-hour had passed away, Archie Downie 
 and his shoulder-blade were forgotten, and 
 the uproarious hilarity which they had 
 temporarily interrupted, again rang 
 thiough the banqueting hall of Mony- 
 garvin. 
 
 The party sat late, and drank deep ; 
 but before they separated for the night, 
 the laird proposed that they should de- 
 vote the following day to a hunting match. 
 The proposal was acceded to with shouts 
 of applause ; and soon after the debauchees, 
 one after another, began to reel oflf to bed ; 
 
 it having been previously arranged that 
 they should all remain where they were for 
 the night. 
 
 A noisy and joyous crew they were who 
 surrounded the Laird of Ballachie 's break- 
 fast table on the followinir morning; : but, 
 merry as they all were, there was none 
 half so merry as the laird himself. He 
 was in high spirits ; and his loud voice, 
 boisterous laugh, and rough jest, rose 
 above all the similar efforts of his guests. 
 
 It was a delightful day, and everything 
 seemed favorable for the most perfect en- 
 joyment of the noble sport, hunting the 
 red deer, in which the party were about to 
 be engaged. 
 
 A number of the sportsmen armed 
 themselves with rifles ; and two couple of 
 huge shaggy stag hounds, which were led 
 out to the front of the house by the laird's 
 forester, completed the means of destruc- 
 tion intended to be employed against the 
 mountain deer. 
 
 In high glee the party soon after started 
 for the hills. The distance they had to 
 go, before reaching the usual haunts of 
 the deer, was considerable, and included 
 several wild and dangerous passes. 
 
 It was while winding their way through 
 one of these, that the Laird of Ballachie, 
 happening to look up to the dizzy heights 
 above, saw the figure of a man perched on 
 the summit of one of the highest cliffs, 
 and apparently contemplating with great 
 earnestness the party below. 
 
 " Who is that, Duncan .^" said the laird, 
 turnino; to his forester, who was beside 
 him at the moment, not being able, from 
 the distance, to recognise the person who 
 occupied the height. 
 
 Duncan looked for some time at the 
 figure ; but, at length, said he thought it 
 was Murdoch Morrison. 
 
 " I half thought so too," replied Bal- 
 lachie, " but was not sure. What brings 
 the fool idling here, in place of being at 
 the plough tail, as he ought to be, on such 
 a day as this P"* 
 
 The laird said no more on the subject, 
 
•246 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 but passed on with his party ; and Mur- 
 doch Morrison was soon lost sight of. 
 
 For another hour, the sportsmen held 
 on their way over hills and through val- 
 leys, without anything worthy of notice 
 occurring. At the end of about this time, 
 however, the attention of the Laird of 
 Ballachie was again attracted, by the ap- 
 pearance of a human figure outlined on the 
 sky, as it stood on the extreme ridge of a 
 hill at the distance of a mile or two. 
 
 " That fellow Morrison, again !" ex- 
 claimed the laird in some surprise, as his 
 eye fell on the little atom of humanity 
 that appeared upon the height. " What 
 does the idiot mean by hanging on our 
 skirts this way ? He is evidently dogging 
 us. Is it the love of the sport that brings 
 the stupid ass away from his business ?" 
 
 " Very likely," said the laird's forest- 
 er, to whom this query was, although in- 
 directly, put. " Very likely," he said, 
 " althouo;h 1 never knew Murdoch come 
 so far before after a deer hunt. He never 
 used to care anything at all about them.'' 
 Again the party went on, and again 
 Murdoch was lost sight of and forgotten. 
 
 The sportsmen had now nearly reached 
 the ground which the deer usually fre- 
 quented. On doing so, there was a gene- 
 ral halt, and a ioadino; of rifles. The doors 
 were placed in the slips, and everything 
 put in readiness for the appearance of the 
 quarry. 
 
 The party now advanced slowly, cau- 
 tiously, and quietly along a deep hollow, 
 at the upper extremity of which they ex- 
 pected to find two or three '" hearts of 
 grease." They were thus proceeding 
 along, when, just as they opened a small 
 ravine on their left, they came suddenly 
 upon Murdoch Morrison. He was crouch- 
 ing behind a rock — a situation which he 
 had evidently chosen as a place of con- 
 cealment ; for he seemed taken by sur- 
 p: ise when the party discovered him. 
 
 On perceiving that he was seen, how- 
 ever, he rose from the ground on which he 
 had been extended at full length, and, ad- 
 
 vancing towards the laird, touched his 
 bonnet respectfully, but without saying a 
 word. There was something at the mo- 
 m^nt peculiar in the man's look ; it was 
 sullen and ferocious. In his eye too there 
 was an unwonted wildness of expres.sion, 
 which did not escape the laird. 
 
 " Come to see the sport, Murdoch," 
 said the latter, in his usual frank man- 
 ner. 
 
 " With your leave," replied Murdoch, 
 morosely ; and at the same time scanning 
 the others of the party with a sinister 
 look. 
 
 '^ Oh, surely, surely," said Ballachie ; 
 " but why didn't you join us at once, man, 
 instead of running round us as you have 
 been doing for the last two hours ; appear- 
 ing here and disappearing there like a 
 spunkie.'' 
 
 To this piece of jocularity, Morrison 
 made no reply, nor did it move a muscle 
 of his countenance beyond what produced 
 a very faint and equivocal smile. 
 
 The laird and his party now moved on ; 
 and Murdoch dropped behind and attach- 
 ed himself to the forester who was follow- 
 ing with the dogs. 
 
 " 1 never knew you take any interest in 
 the chase before, Murdoch," said the for- 
 mer, on Murdoch's placing himself beside 
 him. 
 
 " Pei'haps there's a reason for my doing 
 it now, Duncan," replied the latter. 
 
 '' Oh, no doubt, Murdoch, no doubt," 
 said the forester. " I hope, however, we 
 shall have good sport." 
 
 " We'll have more sport this day, Dun- 
 can, than some here are aware of," said 
 JNIurdoch, emphatically. 
 
 '' The more the better," replied the 
 forester, gaily. 
 
 His companion smiled grimly, but said 
 no more. 
 
 A cry from some of the foremost of the 
 party, at this moment, announced that a 
 deer had been discovered. The forester, 
 leavins: Murdoch, hurried forward to the 
 front with his dogs, when 
 
THE LAIRD OF BALLACHIE- 
 
 247 
 
 ** The antlered monarch of the waste, 
 
 Sprung fom his heathery couch in haste ; 
 
 But, ere his first career he took. 
 
 The dew drops from his flanks he shook — 
 
 Like crested leader proud and high, 
 
 Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky ; 
 
 A moment gazed adown the dale, 
 
 A moment snufted the- tainted gale,- 
 
 A moment listened to the cry, 
 
 That thickened as the chase drew nigh ; 
 
 Then as the headmost foes appeared, 
 
 "With one brave bound the copse he cleared ; 
 
 And, stretching forward, fiee and far, 
 
 Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var." 
 
 Snch was the scene that now took place. 
 The deer was oiF ; the dogs slipped and in 
 full career after him over hill and dale. 
 
 All was now confusion and excitement. 
 The sportsmen were whooping and yelling, 
 and runnino; in all directions to 2:ain such 
 eminences as might enable them to keep 
 the chase in view. The party were thus 
 dispersed in every way, and in several in- 
 stances widely separated. 
 
 When this di.-^persion took place, how- 
 ever, it was observed, but without exciting 
 any attention, that Murdoch Morrison 
 hastened in the direction the laird had 
 taken, and afterwards closely followed him 
 wherever he went. The latter, too much 
 engrossed by the sport to notice the cir- 
 cumstance, or, if he had, to think anything 
 of it, held on his way to gain the ridge of 
 a rano-e of cliff, called Craiii; More — a tre- 
 mendoUuS precipice of many hundred feet 
 of perpendicular rock, and the summit of 
 which commanded an extensive view of the 
 surrounding country. 
 
 The ascent to the summit of Crai"- More 
 was gradual on one side, and of easy ac- 
 complishment. Yet so sudden was the 
 plunge of the precipice in which it termi- 
 nated, that the mountain wanderer came 
 upon it unawares, and, unless previously 
 acquainted with the locality, never dream- 
 ed of the frightful gulf he was approaching 
 until he stood upon its very edge. It was 
 then that his stejD was arrested in terror. 
 Then, when he suddenly found himself on 
 th3 brink of this appalling abyss, adown 
 which a foot farther, and he had been in- 
 evirably precipitated. Then, when he 
 found himself on the edge of this dizzy 
 
 height and looked on the sheer gray wall 
 of rock that dropped below him to a aepth 
 that rendered all objects, at the base, faint 
 and indistinct to the eye. 
 
 It was for the summit of this precipice, 
 then, that the Laird of Ballachie now 
 made, heedless of everything but the chase 
 in which his whole soul — for he was a keen 
 sportsman — was wrapped up. He had, 
 at that moment, neither eyes nor ears for 
 anything else. Had he had the former 
 even, he would have been struck, if not 
 alarmed, at the stealthy, yet eager pace 
 with which he was followed by Murdoch 
 Morrison, who kept at the distance of 
 eight or ten paces behind him ; and still 
 more would he have been alarmed, had he 
 marked the wild and distracted look with 
 which that person kept his eye constantly 
 fixed on him. 
 
 The laiid, however, marked none of these 
 things, but held on his way until he had 
 gained the extreme edge of Craig More. 
 Here, gratified by a sight of the chase, 
 which was at the moment sweeping the 
 strath below, he stood intendy gazino- on 
 the interesting scene, and shouting aloud 
 in the excitation of his feelings. 
 
 At this moment, Murdoch Morrison 
 was about two or three yards behind him. 
 Ho had suddenly stopped short on the 
 laird's reaching the edge of the precipice, 
 and had unconsciously thrown himself into 
 an attitude somewhat resemblino- that of a 
 tiger v/hen about to spring on his prey. 
 
 In this attitude he remained for several 
 seconds, his glaring eyes fixed with a dead- 
 ly stare uj)on his ill-fated landlord. He 
 seemed to be watching the proper moment 
 for some desperate deed. That moment 
 came and the deed was done. 
 
 IMorrison made a sudden rush on the 
 laird, who was still gazing intently ovsr 
 the edge of the cliff, planted his two ex- 
 tended hands full and forcibly on his back, 
 and hurled him headlong over the preci- 
 pice. Down, down, went the body of the 
 unfortunate man with frightful lapidity 
 , into the depths below, bounding from crag 
 
048 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 to crag in its horrible descent, until it 
 reached the bottom a torn and mangled 
 muss, in which scarce a trace of humanity 
 remained. 
 
 On the edge of the cliflf, with his hands 
 still extended at their full stretch over the 
 abyss, as when they had perpetrated the 
 appalling deed just recorded, stood Mur- 
 doch Morrison, marking, with savage 
 eagerness and exultation, the descent of 
 the body of the unhappy Laird of Balla- 
 chie ; and thus he stood for some minutes, 
 even after the body had reached the bot- 
 tom of the precipice, as if gloating over 
 the mano-led carcass of his victim. 
 
 From this position, however, he at 
 
 length suddenly withdrew, and bounding 
 down the hill with the speed of the deer, 
 of whose flight he had so lately been a 
 witness, was never more seen in that part 
 of the country. 
 
 It was said, and we believe truly, that 
 after committing the murder, Morrison 
 made directly for the low country, pro- 
 ceeded to Greenock, and there embarked 
 for America. 
 
 From this tale, we think, both the liber- 
 tine and the knave, who would injure the 
 weak because they are so, may read a 
 lesson not unworthy of their most se- 
 rious consideration. 
 
 THE SEEKER. 
 
 Amongst the many thousand readers of 
 these tales, there are, perhaps, few who 
 have not observed that the object of the 
 writer is frequently of a higher kind than 
 that of merely contributing to their amuse- 
 ment. He would wish " to point a moral,'' 
 while he endeavors to " adorn a tale." It 
 is with this view that he now lays before 
 them the history of a Seeker. The first 
 time he remembers hearing, or rather of 
 noticing the term, was in a conversation 
 with a living author respecting the merits 
 of a popular poet, when his religious opi- 
 nions being adverted to, it was mentioned 
 that, in a letter to a brother poet of equal 
 celebrity, he described himself as a Seek- 
 er. I was struck with the word and its 
 application. I had never met with the 
 fool who saith in his heart that there is no 
 God ; and, though I had known many de- 
 niers of Revelation, yet a Seeker, in the 
 sense in which the word was applied, ap- 
 peared a new character. But, on reflec- 
 tion, I found it an epithet applicable to 
 
 thousands, and adopted it as a title to our 
 present story. 
 
 Richard Stoiie was the eldest son of a 
 Dissenting minister, who had the pastoral 
 charge of a small congregation a few miles 
 from Hawick. His father was not what 
 the world calls a man of talent, but he 
 possessed what is far beyond talents — piety 
 and humility. In his own heart he felt 
 his Bible to be true — its words were as a 
 lamp within him — and from his heart he 
 poured forth its doctrines, its hopes, and 
 consolations, to others, with a fervor and 
 an earnestness which Faith only can in- 
 spire. It is not the thunder of declama- 
 tion, the pomp of eloquence, the majesty 
 of rhetoric, the rounded period, and the 
 glow of imagery, which can chain the lis- 
 tening soul, and melt down the heart of 
 the unbeliever, as metals yield to the heat 
 of the furnace. Show me the hoary- 
 headed preacher, who carries sincerity in 
 his very look and in his very tones, who is 
 animated because faith inspires him, and 
 
THE SEEKER. 
 
 249 
 
 out of the fulness of his own heart his 
 mouth speaketh, and there is the man 
 from whose tongue truth floweth as from 
 the lips of an apostle ; and the small still 
 voice of conscience echoes to his words, 
 while hope burns and the judgment be- 
 comes convinced. Where faith is not in 
 the preacher, none will be produced in the 
 hearer. Such a man was the father of 
 Richard Storie. He had fulfilled his 
 vows, and prayed with and for his children 
 He set before them the example of a 
 Christian parent, and he rejoiced to per- 
 ceive that that example was not lost upon 
 them. 
 
 We pass over the earlier years of Rich- 
 ard Storie, as during that period he had 
 not become a Seeker, nor did he differ 
 from other children of his age. There 
 was, indeed, a thoughtfulness and sensi- 
 bility about his character ; but these were 
 by no means so remarkable as to require 
 particular notice, nor did they mark his 
 boyhood in a peculiar degree. The truths 
 which from his childhood he had been ac- 
 customed to hear from his father's lips, he 
 had never doubted ; but he felt their truth 
 as he felt his father's love, for both had 
 been imparted to him together. He had 
 fixed upon the profession of a surgeon, 
 and, at the age of eighteen, he was sent to 
 Edinburgh to attend the classes. He was 
 a zealous student, and his progress re- 
 aliz-3d the fondest wishes and anticipations 
 of his parent. It was during his second 
 session that Richard was induced, by some 
 of his fellow collegians, to become a mem- 
 ber of a debating society. It was composed 
 of many bold and ambitious young men, 
 who, in the confidence of their hearts, 
 rashly dared to meddle with things too 
 high for them. There were many amono"st 
 them who regarded it as a proof of manli- 
 ness to avow their scepticism, and who 
 gloried in scoffing at the eternal truths 
 which had lighted the souls of their fa- 
 thers, when the darkness of death fell 
 upon their eyelids. It is one of the be- 
 setting sins of youth to appear wise above 
 
 what is written. There were many such 
 amonsrst those with whom Richard Storie 
 now associated. From them he first heard 
 the truths which had been poured into his 
 infant ear from his father's lips attacked, 
 and the ton";ue of the scoffjr rail ao-ainst 
 them. His first feeling was horror, and 
 he shuddered at the impiety of his friends. 
 He rose to combat their objections and 
 refute their arguments, but he withdrew 
 not from the society of the wicked. Wei'li 
 succeeded week, and he became a leadii g 
 member of the club. He was no longer 
 filled with horror at the bold assertions of 
 the avowed sceptic, nor did he manifest 
 disgust at the ribald jest. As night si- 
 lently and imperceptibly creeps through 
 the air, deepening shade on shade till the 
 earth lies buried in its darkness, so had the 
 gloom of Doubt crept over his mind, deep- 
 ening and darkening, till his soul was be- 
 wildered in the sunless wilderness. 
 
 The members acted as chairmen of the 
 society in rotation, and, in his turn, the 
 of&ce fell upon Richard Storie. For the 
 first time, he seemed to feel conscious of 
 the darkness in which his spirit was en- 
 veloped ; conscience haunted him as a 
 hound followeth its prey ; and still its 
 small still voice whispered — 
 
 " Who sitteth in the scorner's chair." 
 
 The words seemed burning on his memory. 
 He tried to forget them, to chase them 
 away — to speak of, to listen to other 
 things ; but he could not — " Who sitteth 
 in the scorner''s chair^'' rose upon his mind 
 as if printed before him — as if he heard 
 the words from his father's tongue — as 
 though they would rise to his own lips. 
 He was troubled — his conscience smote 
 him — the darkness in which his soul was 
 shrouded was made visible. He left his 
 companions — he hastened to his lodgings 
 and wept. But his tears brought not 
 back the light which had been extinguished 
 within him, nor restored the hopes which 
 the pjide and the rashness of reason had 
 destroyed. He had become the willing 
 prisoner of Doubt^ and it now held him in 
 
250 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 its cold and iron grasp, struggling in des- 
 
 )air. 
 
 Reason, or rather the self-sufficient 
 arrogance of fancied talent which fre- 
 quentlj assumes its name, endeavored to 
 suppress the whisperings of conscience in 
 his breast ; and in such a state of mind 
 was Richard Storie, when he was sum- 
 moned to attend the deathbed of his father. 
 It was winter, and the snow lay deep on 
 the ground, and there was no conveyance 
 to Hawick until the following day ; but, 
 ere the morrow came, eternity might be 
 between him and his parent. He had 
 wandered from the doctrines that parent 
 had taught, but no blight had yet fallen on 
 the affections of his heart. He hurried 
 forth on foot ; and, having travelled all 
 night in sorrow and in anxiety, before day- 
 break he arrived at the home of his infan- 
 cy. Two of the elders of the congregation 
 stood before the door. 
 
 " Ye are just in time, Mr. Richard," 
 said one of them mournfully, ^' for he'll no 
 be lang now ; and he has prayed earnestly 
 that he might only be spared till ye ar- 
 rived." 
 
 Richard wept aloud. 
 
 " Oh, try and compose yoursel, dear 
 Sir," said the elder. " Your distress may 
 break the peace with which he's like to 
 pass away. It's a sair trial, nae doubt — 
 a visitation to us a' — but ye ken, Richard, 
 we must not mourn as those who have no 
 hope." 
 
 " Hope !" groaned the agonized son as 
 he entered the house. He went towards 
 the room where his father lay — his mother 
 and his brethren sat weeping around the 
 bed. 
 
 "Richard!" said his afflicted mother, 
 as she rose and flung her arms around his 
 neck. The dying man heard the name of 
 his first-born, his languid eyes brightened, 
 h^ endeavored to raise himself upon his 
 pillow, he stretched forth his feeble hand. 
 — 'Richard! — ^my own Richard!" he 
 exclaimed ; " ye hae come, my son — my 
 prayer is heard, and I can die in peace ! 
 
 I longed to see ye, for my .spirit was trou- 
 bled upon yer account — sore and sadly 
 troubled ; for there were expressions in 
 yer last letter that made me tremble — that 
 made me fear that the pride o' human 
 learning was lifting up the heart o' my 
 bairn, and leading his judgment into the 
 dark paths o' error and unbelief — but, oh ! 
 those tears are not the tears of an unbe- 
 liever !" 
 
 He sank back exhausted. Richard 
 trembled. He again raised his head. 
 
 " Get the books," said he, feebly, " and 
 Richard will make worshiD. It is the last 
 time we shall all join together in praise on 
 this earth, and it will be the last time I 
 shall hear the voice o' my bairn in prayer, 
 and it is long since I heard it. Sing the 
 hymn, 
 
 ' The hour of my departure's come,' 
 
 and read the twenty-third psalm." 
 
 Richard did as his dying parent request- 
 ed ; and, as he knelt by the bedside, and 
 lifted up his voice in prayer, his conscience 
 smote him, agony pierced his soul, and his 
 tongue faltered. He now became a Seeker, 
 seeking mercy and truth at the same mo- 
 ment : and, in the agitation of his spirit, 
 his secret thoughts were revealed, his 
 doubts were manifested ! A deep groan 
 issued from the dying bed. The voice of 
 the supplicant failed him — his Amen died 
 upon his- lips — he started to his feet in 
 confusion. 
 
 " My son ! — my son !" feebly cried the 
 dying man, " ye hae lifted yer eyes to the 
 mountains o' vanity, and the pride o' rea- 
 son has darkened yer heart, but, as yet, it 
 has not hardened it. O Richard ! remem- 
 ber the last words o' yer dying faither — 
 ' Seek, and ye shall find.' Pray with an 
 humble and a contiite heart, and in yer 
 last hour ye will hae, as I hae now, a licht 
 to guide ye through the dark valley of the 
 shadow of death." 
 
 He called his wife and his other children 
 around him — he blessed them — he strove 
 to comfort them — he committed them to 
 His care, who is the Husband of the widow, 
 
TEIE SEEKER. 
 
 251 
 
 and the Father of the fatherless. The lustre 
 that lighted up his eyes for a moment, as 
 he besought a blessing on them, vanished 
 away, his head sank back upon his pillow, 
 a low moan was heard, and his spirit passed 
 into peace. 
 
 His father's death threw a blight upon 
 the prospects of Richard. He no longer 
 possessed the means of prosecuting his 
 studies ; and, in order to support himself, 
 and assist his mother, he engaged himself 
 as tutor in the family of a gentleman in 
 East Lothian. But there his doubts fol- 
 lowed him, and melancholy sat upon his 
 breast. He had thoughtlessly, almost im- 
 perceptibly, stepped into the gloomy paths 
 of unbelief, and anxiously he groped to 
 retrace his steps ; but it was as a blind 
 man stumbles ; and, in wading through 
 the maze of controversy for a guide, his 
 way became more intricate, and the dark- 
 ness of his mind more intense. He re- 
 pented that he had ever listened to the 
 words of the scoffer, or sat in the chair of 
 the scorner ; but he had permitted the 
 cold mists of scepticism to gather round 
 his mind, till even the affections of his 
 heart became blighted by their influence. 
 He was now a solitary man, shunning so- 
 ci.3ty ; and at those hours when his pupils 
 were not under his charge, he would wan- 
 der alone in the wood or by the river, 
 brooding over unutterable thoughts, and 
 communing with despair — for he sought 
 not, as is the manner of many, to instil the 
 poison that had destroyed his own peace 
 into the minds of others. He carried his 
 punishment in his soul, and was silent 
 — in the soul that was doubting its own 
 existence ! Of all hypochondriacs, to me 
 the unbeliever seems the most absurd. 
 For, can matter think, can it reason, can 
 it doubt } Is it not the thins; that doubts 
 which distrusts its own being .? Often when 
 he so wandered, the last words of his 
 father — " Seek, and ye shall find" — were 
 whispered in his heart, as though the spirit 
 of the departed had breathed them over 
 him. Then would he raise his hands in 
 
 agony, and his prayer rose from the soli- 
 tude of the woods. 
 
 After acting about two years as tutor, 
 he returned to Edinburgh and com- 
 pleted his studies. Having, with diffi- 
 culty, from the scantiness of his means, 
 obtained his diplomas, he commenced 
 practice in his native village. His 
 brothers and his sisters had arrived at 
 manhood and womanhood, and his mother 
 enjoyed a small annuity. Almost from 
 boyhood, he had been deeply attached to 
 Agnes Brown, the daughter of a neighbor- 
 ing farmer ; and, about three years after 
 he had commenced practice, she bestowed 
 on him her hand. She was all that his 
 heart could wish — meek, gentle, and af- 
 fectionate — and her anxious love threw a 
 gleam of sunshine over the melancholy that 
 had settled upon his soul. Often, when 
 he fondly gazed in her eyes, where affec- 
 tion beamed, the hope of immortality would 
 flash through his bosom — for one so good, 
 so made of all that renders virtue dear, but 
 to be born to die and to be no more, he 
 deemed impossible. They had been mar- 
 ried about nine years, and Agnes had 
 become the mother of five fair children, 
 when, in one day, Death entered their 
 dwelling, and robbed them of two of their 
 little ones. Their neighbors had gathered 
 together to comfort them, and the mother 
 in silent anguish wept over her babes ; but 
 the father stood tearless and stricken with 
 grief, as though his hopes were sealed up 
 in the coffin of his children. Jn his agony, 
 he uttered words of strange meaning. 
 The doubts of the Seeker burst forth in 
 the accents of despair. The neighbors 
 gazed at each other. They had before had 
 doubts of the religious principles of Dr. 
 Storie — now those doubts were confirmed. 
 In the bitterness of his grief, he had spo- 
 ken of the grave as the eternal prison of 
 the dead — and of futurity and a resurrec- 
 tion as things he hoped for, but believed 
 not. 
 
 His words were circulated through the 
 village, and over the country — and, as 
 
252 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 they spread, they were exaggerated. — 
 iVJany began to regard him as an unsafe 
 man to visit a death-bed, where he might 
 attempt to rob the dying of the everlasting 
 hope which enables them to triumph over 
 the last- enemy. His practice fell off, and 
 the wants of his family increased. He 
 was no longer able to maintain an appear- 
 ance of respectability ; his coat had as- 
 sumed a melancholy hue ; and he gave up 
 assembling with his family amidst the 
 conorregation over which his father had 
 been pastor. His circumstances aggra- 
 vated the gloom of his mind ; and, for a 
 time, he became not a Seeker, but one 
 who abandoned himself to callousness and 
 despair. Even the affection of his wife — 
 which knew no change, but rather increas- 
 ed as affliction and misfortune came upon 
 them — with the smiles and affection of his 
 children, became irksome. Their love in- 
 creased his misery. His own house was 
 all but forsaken, and the blacksmith's shop 
 became his consulting room, the village 
 alehouse his laboratory. Misery and con- 
 tempt heightened the " shadows, clouds, 
 and darkness," which rested on his mind. 
 To his anguish and excitement he had 
 now added habits of intemperance — his 
 health became a wreck, and he sank upon 
 his bed, a miserable and a ruined man. 
 The shadow of death seemed lowering over 
 him, and he lay trembling, shrinking from 
 its approach, shuddering and brooding over 
 the cheerless, the horrible thought — anni- 
 hilation ! But, even then, his poor Agnes 
 watched over him with a love stronger 
 than death. She strove to cheer him with 
 
 the thought that he would still live — that 
 they would again be happy. " O my hus- 
 band!" cried she, fondly, " yield not to 
 despair — seek^ and ye shall find .'" 
 
 '' O heavens, Agnes!" exclaimed he, 
 " I have sought ! — 1 have sought ! I have 
 been a Seeker until now ; but Truth flees 
 from me, Hope mocks me, and the terrors 
 of Death only find me !" 
 
 " Kneel with me, my children,^' she 
 cried ; " let us pray for mercy and peace 
 of mind for your poor father .^" — And the 
 fond wife and her offspring knelt around 
 the bed where her husband lay. A gleam 
 of joy passed over the sick man's counte- 
 nance, as the voice of her supplication 
 rose upon his ear, and a ray of hope fell 
 upon his heart. " Amen .'" he uttered as 
 she arose ; and '■'■Ainen .'" responded their 
 children. 
 
 On the bed of sickness, his heart had 
 been humbled ; he had, as it were, seen 
 death face to face, and the nearer it ap- 
 proached, the stronger assurances did he 
 feel qf the immortality he had dared to 
 doubt. He arose from his bed a new man 
 — hope illumined, and faith began to glow 
 in his bosom. His doubts were vanquish- 
 ed, his fears dispelled. He had sought, 
 and at length found — found the joys and 
 the hopes of the Christian. He regained 
 the esteem of men, and again prospered ; 
 and this was the advice of the Seeker to 
 his children — '' Avoid trusting to reason, 
 when it would flatter you with your own 
 wisdom ; for it begetteih doubt — doubly 
 unbelief — unbeliefs despair — and despair, 
 death .'" 
 
 -♦-<^>^»- 
 
PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON. 
 
 253 
 
 PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON. 
 
 We believe there never was sucli a sad 
 Sabbath witnessed as that upon which 
 nearly four hundred- of the established 
 clergy of Scotland preached their farewell 
 sermons and addresses to their several 
 congregations. It was a day, as the his- 
 torians of that period express it, of "wail- 
 ing, and of loud lamentation, as the weep- 
 ing of Jazer, when the lords of the heath- 
 en had broken down her principal plants ; 
 and as the mourning of Rachel, who wept 
 for her children, and would not be com- 
 forted." 
 
 On the 4th day of October 1662, a 
 council, under the commission of the infa- 
 tuated and ill-advised Middleton, was held 
 at Glasgow ; and, in an hour of brutal in- 
 toxication, it was resolved and decreed 
 that all those ministers of the Church of 
 Scotland who had by a popular election, 
 entered upon their cures since the year 
 1649, should, in the first instance, be ar- 
 rested, nor permitted to resume their pul- 
 pits, or draw their stipends, till they had 
 received a presentation at the hands of the 
 lay patrons, and submitted to induction 
 from the diocesan bishop. In other words, 
 Presbytery, which had been so dearly pur- 
 chased, and was so acceptable to the peo- 
 ple of Scotland, was to be superseded by 
 Prelacy ; and the mandate of the prince, 
 or of his privy council, was to be consi- 
 dered in future as law^ in all matters whe- 
 ther civil or ecclesiastical. It was not to 
 be supposed that the descendants and ad- 
 mirers of Knox, and Hamilton, and Welsh, 
 and Melville would calmly and passively 
 submit to this ; and accordingly the 20th 
 day of October — the last Sabbath which, 
 without conformity to the orders in coun- 
 cil, the proscribed ministers were permit- 
 ted to preach — was a day anticipated with 
 anxious feelings, and afterwards remem- 
 
 bered to their dying day, by all who wit- 
 nessed it. It was our fortune, in our 
 early life, to be acquainted with an old 
 man, upwards of ninety, an inhabitant of 
 the village of Glenluce, whose grandfather 
 was actually present at the farewell or 
 parting sermon which Mr. Peden, the au- 
 thor of the famous prophecies which bear 
 his name, delivered on this occasion to his 
 parishioners. \Ye have conversed with 
 this aged chronicler so frequently and so 
 fully upon the subject, that we believe we 
 can give a pretty faithful report of what 
 was then delivered by Peden. 
 
 " I remember well.," continued, accord- 
 ing to my authority, the old chronicler, 
 " I mind it well — it seems but as yester- 
 day, the morning of this truly awful and 
 not-be -forgotten day. It had been rain 
 in the night-time, and the raornino- was 
 dark and cloudy — the mist trailed like the 
 smoke o' a furnace, white and ragged, 
 alang the hill taps. The heavens above 
 seemed, as it were, to scowl upon the 
 earth beneath. I rose early, as was my 
 wont on the Sabbath morning, and hitched 
 away towards the tap o' the Briock. I 
 had only continued, it micht be, an hour, 
 in private meditation and prayer, when I 
 heard the eight o'clock bells beginning to 
 toll. Indeed, I could hear, from the place 
 where I was, I may say, every bell in the 
 Presbytery. The sound o' these bells is 
 still in my ears — it was unusually sweet 
 and melodious ; and yet there was some- 
 thing very melancholy in the sound. I 
 thought on the blood of the saints by which 
 these bells had been purchased ; upon the 
 many souls, now gone to a better place, 
 who had been summoned to a preached 
 gospel by these bells ; and I thought, too, 
 on the sad alteration which a few hours 
 would produce, when the pulpit would be 
 
254 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 deserted bj tlae Worthy Presbyterian min- 
 isters who filled them, and be filled, it 
 might be, by Prelatical curates— wolves 
 in sheeps' clothing, and fushionless preach- 
 ers at the best. Even at this early hour, 
 I could see, every here and there, blue 
 bonnets, and black and white plaids, and 
 scarlet mantles, mixing with and coming 
 forth every now and then from the broken 
 and creeping mist. The Lord's own co 
 venanted flock were e'en gaun awa to 
 pluck a mouthfu (it micht be the last) o' 
 halesome and sanctified pasture. 
 
 *' The doors of the kirk of New Luce 
 had been thrown open early in the morn- 
 inn- ; but, owinsi; to the immense concourse 
 of people, a tent had been latterly erected 
 on the brow face, immediately opposite to 
 the kirk-stile, and the multitude had set- 
 tled, and were, when wo arrived, settling 
 down, like bees around their queen, on all 
 s'd-^s of it. Having advanced suddenly 
 over the height, and come all at once with- 
 in view of this goodly assembly, I found 
 them engaged, as was their customary, till 
 the minister's appearance, in psalm-sing- 
 ing. A portion of the thirty-second 
 psalm had been selected by the precen- 
 tor, and he was in the act of giving out^ 
 as it is termed, these appropriate and com- 
 forting lines — 
 
 " '• Thou art my liiding-place ; thou shalt 
 
 From trouble set me free ; 
 And with songs of deliverance 
 
 About shall compass me "— 
 
 when Peden made his appearance above 
 the brow of the adjoining linn, where he 
 had probably been engaged for some time 
 in preparatory and private devotion. He 
 advanced with the pulpit bible under his 
 arm, and with a rapid, though occasionally 
 a hesitating step. All eyes were at once 
 turned upon him ; but he seemed lost in 
 meditation, and altogether careless or un- 
 conscious of his exposed situation. His 
 figure was diminutive, but his frame ath- 
 letic, and his step elastic. He wore a blue 
 bonnet, from beneath which his dark hair 
 flowed out over his shoulders, long, lank, 
 
 and dishevelled. His complexion was sal- 
 low, but his eyes dark, keen, and penetrat- 
 ing. He had neither gown nor band ; but 
 had his shirt neck tied up with a narrow 
 stock of uncommon whiteness. Thus ha- 
 bited, he approached the congregation, 
 who rose up to make way for him ; as- 
 cended the ladder attached to the back- 
 door of the tent ; and forthwith proceeded 
 to the duties of the day. 
 
 '' ' Therefore watch and remember ; 
 for the space of three years I ceased not 
 to warn every one, night and day with 
 tears.' 
 
 " These words of the text were read 
 out in a firm, though somewhat shrill and 
 squeaking tone of voice ; and as he lifted 
 up his eyes from the sacred page, and 
 looked east and west around him, there 
 was a general preparatory cough, and ad- 
 justment of position and dress, which 
 clearly bespoke the protracted attention 
 which was about to be given. And, truly, 
 althoujxh he continued to discourse from 
 twelve o'clock till dusk, I cannot say that 
 I felt tired or hungry. IVor did it appear 
 that the speaker's strength or matter failed 
 him — nay, he even rose into a degree of 
 fervid and impressive eloquence towards 
 the close, which none who were present 
 ever heard equalled. 
 
 " ' And now, my friends,' continued 
 he, in a concluding appeal to their con- 
 sciences — ' and now I am gaun to warn ye 
 anent the future, as weel as to admonish 
 you of the past. Ye '11 see and hear nae 
 mair o' puir Sandy Peden after this day's 
 wark is owre. See ye that puir bird ' — 
 (at this moment a hawk had darted down, 
 in view of the whole congregation, in pur- 
 suit of its prey) — ' see ye that puir pant- 
 ing laverock, which has now crossed into 
 that dark and deep linn, for safety and for 
 refuge from the claws and the beak of its 
 pursuers } Pll tell ye what, my friends, 
 j the twasome didna drift down this way, 
 1 frae that dark clud, and along that bleak 
 heathery brae-face, for naething. They 
 I were sent, they were commissioned ; and 
 
r 
 
 PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON. 
 
 255 
 
 if ye had a' risen to your feet, ere they 
 passed, and cried ' Shue !' ye couldnahae 
 frightened them oot o' their mission. 
 They cam to testify o' a persecuted rem- 
 nant, an' o' a cruel pursuin foe — of a kirk 
 which will soon hae to betak hersel, like a 
 bird, to the mountains, and of an enemy 
 whic4i will not allow her to rest, by night 
 nor by day, even in the dark recesses o' 
 the rocks, or amidst the damp an' cauld 
 mosses o' the hills. They cam, an' they 
 war welcome, to gie auld Sandy a warnin 
 too, an' to bid him tak the bent as fast as 
 possible ; to flee, even this very night, for 
 the pursuer is even nigh at hand. But, 
 hooly, sirs, we maunna pairt till oor wark 
 be finished ; as an auld writer has it — ' till 
 our work is finished, we are immortal.' I 
 hae e'en dune my best, as saith an apostle, 
 amang ye ; an' 1 hae this day the consola- 
 tion, an' that's no sma', to think that my 
 puir exertions hae been rewarded wi' some 
 sma' success. An' had it been His plan, 
 or His pleasure, to have permitted me to 
 lay doon my auld banes, whan I had nae 
 mair use for them, beneath ane o' the 
 through-stanes there, 1 canna say but I 
 wad hae been content. But, since it's no 
 His guid an' sovereign pleasure, I hae ae 
 request to mak before we separate this 
 nicht, never in this place to meet again.' 
 (Hereupon the sobbing and the bursting 
 forth of hitherto suppressed sorrow, was 
 almost universal.) ' Ye maun a' stand 
 upon your feet, an' lift up your hands, an' 
 swear, before the great Head an' Master 
 o' the Presbyterian Kirk of Scotland,' 
 (there was a general rising and show of 
 hands, whilst the speaker continued,) 
 ' thai till an independent Presbyterian 
 minister ascend the pulpit, you will never 
 enter the door o' that kirk mair ; an' let 
 this be the solemn league an' covenant 
 betwixt you an' me, an' betwixt my God 
 an' your God, in all time coming. Amen ! 
 — so let it be !* 
 
 *' In this standing pofsition, which we 
 had thus, almost insensibly assumed, the 
 last prayer or benediction was heard, and 
 
 the concluding psalm in the afiecting ser- 
 vices was suns: — 
 
 " ' For he in his pavilion shall 
 
 Me hide in evil days, 
 In secret of his tent me hide, 
 And on a rock me raise.' 
 
 I never listened to a sound, or beheld a 
 spect^icle more overpowering. The night 
 cloud had come down the hill above us — 
 the sun had set. It was twilight ; and the 
 united and full swing of the voice of praise 
 ascended through the veil of evening, from 
 the thousands of lips, even to the gate of 
 heaven. Whilst we continued sinjrino;, 
 our venerable pastor descended from the 
 tent — the Word of God in his hand, and 
 the accents of praise on his lips ; and, at 
 the concluding line, he stood fairly and 
 visibly out by himself, upon the entry to- 
 wards the east door of the kirk. Having 
 shut the door and locked it, in the view 
 and in the hearing of the people, he 
 knocked upon it thrice with the back of 
 the pulpit Bible, accompanying this action 
 with these words, audibly and distinctly 
 pronounced — 
 
 " ' I arrest thee, in my Master's name, 
 that none ever enter by thee, save those 
 who enter by the door of Presbytery.' So 
 saying, he ascended the wall at the kirk- 
 stile spread his arms abroad to their ut- 
 most stretch, and, in a solemn and impres- 
 sive manner, dismissed the multitude." 
 
 Although Peden was thus banished from 
 that pulpit to which, during the civil wars, 
 he had been elected by the unanimous 
 voice of a most attached people, he did 
 not thereupon, or therefore, refrain entire- 
 ly from exercising his function as a minis- 
 ter of the Gospel ; but, having betaken 
 himself to those fastnesses which lie be- 
 twixt Wigton and Ayrshire, he was in the 
 habit of assembling, occasionally, around 
 him, the greater part of his congregation, 
 as well as many belonging to the neighbor- 
 ino" parishes. In the meantime, after se- 
 veral months' vacancy, a young and half- 
 educated lad from Aberdeen was appointed 
 by the government in the capacity of cu- 
 
=ri 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 rite. This person Avas, of course, hated 
 bj the parish ; but this hatred was exalted 
 to abhorrence, in consequence of his im- 
 moral and unclerical life and conver- 
 sation. 
 
 William Smith and Jessie Lawson, 
 were the children, the first of a respecta- 
 ble farmer, and th-3 other of a pious, 
 thouorh poor widow woman. There had 
 boon some difficulties in the way of the 
 lovers — 
 
 "For the course of true love never yet run smooth ;" 
 
 but these had at last been removed, and 
 the young couple were about to be united, 
 with the consent of relatives, in the honor- 
 able bands of matrimony. But the young 
 and dissolute curate had caught a glimpse 
 of Jessie ; and having been fascinated by 
 her beauty, had not been backward in sig- 
 nifying, both to mother and daughter, his 
 honorable (for they really were so in this 
 case,) intentions. Janet, however, was 
 too sound a Covenanter to give her con- 
 sent. 
 
 " Na, na," she continued ; " my bairn, 
 I wot weel, has been baptized by the holy 
 Mr. Welsh, and she has lano; sucked in 
 the milk of the true and covenanted word, 
 frae worthy and godly Mr. Peden, and it 
 will ill become her to turn her back on 
 her first lover, for the sake o' any yearthly 
 concern whatever." 
 
 In the meantime winter drew on, with 
 its frosts, and its blasts, and its snows, and 
 the lovers became more and more anxious 
 to be united in the bands of hallowed love, 
 in consequence of the pressing and impor- 
 tunate addresses of the curate. Here, 
 however, a difficulty occurred ; which was, 
 however, overcome by bribing the school- 
 master, as session clerk, to proclaim them 
 to empty benches, and by obtaining Pe- 
 den's consent to perform the marriage 
 ceremony on their producing the requisite 
 evidence of proclamation. The place ap- 
 pointed was the Bogle Glen, and the time 
 midnight, on the second day of January, 
 16S4. The night — for such meetings 
 were usually held during night — was 
 
 stormy— there being a considerable de- 
 gree of snow-drift ; but Peden was not 
 easily diverted from his purpose ; nor was 
 his audience unaccustomed to such expo- 
 sures. So the nis^ht-meetinor for relio-ious 
 worship took place beneath the Gleds' 
 Craig, from the brow or apron of which 
 the minister officiated. Beneath him, 
 huddled together under plaids, stood his 
 devoted and attentive congregation, whilst 
 the moon looked down, at intervals, on a 
 landscape over which a frosty wind was 
 ever and anon carrying the snow-drift. 
 Beside the speaker were arranged, on 
 chairs and stools, some young women 
 bearing children to be baptized, and the 
 youthful couple about to be united in 
 marriage. The usual service proceeded ; 
 and the voice of psalms was heard amidst 
 the solemn stillness of the midnight hour. 
 The children were next baptized from an 
 adjoining well, which presented itself op- 
 portunely, like the waters of Meribah, from 
 a cleft of the rock. The young people 
 had just been united, and Peden was in 
 the act of pronouncing the usual benedic- 
 tion, when the tramp of horses' feet was 
 suddenly heard, and in an instant a dis- 
 charge of muskets indicated but too surely 
 the nature of the assault. All was chal- 
 lenge, capture, and dispersion ; through 
 which the screams of the young bride and 
 the menacing voice of the curate were dis- 
 tinctly heard. 
 
 About four o'clock of the same eventful 
 niffht, the manse of New Luce was di 
 
 is- 
 
 covered to be on fire, and some hundreds 
 of fiijures were seen confrreirated in frantic 
 and menacing attitudes around it. At 
 last a form was discovered, bearing off 
 from the flames something which appeared 
 to be inanimate. The curate's screams 
 were heard from his bed-room window ; 
 and, by the assistance of the military, 
 who had now arrived, he was relieved, by 
 a rope, from his critical situation ; and 
 the young lovers were next morning dis- 
 covered, safe and uninjured, in their own 
 home, and in each other's arms. 
 
THE PERSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS. 
 
 257 
 
 THE PERSECUTION OF THE M^MICHAELS. 
 
 The miseries of war are not confined to 
 the battle-field and the actual retuin of 
 the killed and wounded. There is an at- 
 mosphere of wo and intense suffering, 
 which hangs dense and heavy over the 
 whole theatre of war — the devastation and 
 horrors of a wide marching enemy, ad- 
 vancing like the simoom of the desert, and 
 convertino; into a howlino; wilderness the 
 peopled and rejoicing district. Life is 
 extinguished by terror and deprivation as 
 well as by the sword ; and with this dif- 
 ference, too, that the former process is so 
 much the more severe that it is protracted 
 and defenceless. Civil war is, in this re- 
 spect in particular, the most revolting of 
 all. The animosities and resentments of 
 opposing parties arc greatly exasperated 
 by proximity of situation and community 
 of country ; and the revenge of the strong- 
 er directed upon the weaker party is uni- 
 formly marked by many atrocities. Of 
 this character, was unhappily the latter 
 period of the domination of Charles II., 
 together with the whole four years of the 
 Papistical infatuation of the second James. 
 Men, women, and children were not only 
 shot, drowned, and spiked ; but thousands, 
 who escaped this extreme fate, were so 
 worn out by watchings, and cold, and hun- 
 ger, and mental anxieties, as to fall under 
 the power of diseases from which they 
 never recovered. 
 
 An instance illustrative of these remarks 
 occurred, according to invariable tradition 
 (partly oral, and partly written), in the 
 Pass of Dalveen, one of the wildest and 
 most sublime localities in Dumfries-shire. 
 In the days of which we speak, there were 
 no mail-coaches, nor did the public road 
 from Edinburgh to Dumfries pass, as now, 
 through that most fearfully sublime ra- 
 
 VOL. II. 17 
 
 vine ; all then was seclusion and solitude 
 in that mountain retirement, where the 
 winds met and mingled from many a con- 
 verging glen ; and the eagle and the raven 
 divided the supremacy above. The site 
 of the shepherd's shelling is indeed still 
 ascertainable, by the depth of the verdure 
 which marks the departed walls ; and the 
 traveller may see it by the burn side, al- 
 most half way down the pass The family 
 which, during the latter period of the 
 eight-and twenty years' persecution, occu- 
 pied this humble dwelling, was named 
 M'Michael. There were two brothers of 
 that name ; Daniel, who was a bachelor, 
 and Gilbert, who was married, and the 
 father of a son, now a lad of ten or twelve, 
 and two daughters, still younger. The 
 mother of these children was a M'Caio;, a 
 name immortalizad in the annals of perse- 
 cution. The two brothers, Gilbert and 
 Daniel, had rendered themselves peculiarly 
 obnoxious to the spite and revenge of the 
 curate of Durrisdeer, by their refusing to 
 attend ordinances ; and their obtainino: 
 baptism, and even, as times and occasions 
 offered, the sealing ordinance of the Sup- 
 per, from the hands of worthy Mr. Welsh. 
 Besides all this, when hard pursued one 
 day in the pass, Daniel and Gilbert had 
 defended themselves against a whole troop 
 of Douglas' dragoons, by occupying the 
 rocky summits of the Lowther Hills, and 
 precipitating loose and rebounding rocks 
 on the pursuers beneath. It was on this 
 occasion that " Red Rob,'^ of persecuting 
 notoriety, bad his shoulder-blade dislocat- 
 ed : and that Lieutenant James Douaflas 
 himself, in his extreme eagerness to scale 
 the steep, had two of his front teeth dis- 
 lodged. 
 
 Winter 1686 was peculiarly severe, and 
 
258 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the p-ioximif.y of Drumlanrig Castle, the 
 residence of the Queensberry Douglases, 
 rendered it exceedingly unsafe for the two 
 obnoxious brothers, in particular, to visit 
 their home, unless it were by snatches, 
 and at the dead hour of night. The na- 
 tural consequence of all this was, that 
 both brothers lost their health, and that 
 Gilbert, in particular, who was constitu- 
 tionally infirm, contracted, or rather ex- 
 asperated, a bad cough, which threatened 
 serious consequences. It is quite true 
 that a warm bed and the comforts of home 
 might have done much for the complaint ; 
 but Gilbert's ordinary bed-room was the 
 damp extremity of a hollow in a rock, 
 without fire, and with his plaid alone as a 
 nightly couch and covering. It was on a 
 cold and drifty day in the month of Janu- 
 ary, that Gilbert, in the presence of his 
 family, and under houi'ly apprehension of 
 a visit from the barbarous Douglas, called 
 his family around him, and, leaning upon 
 the bosom of his beloved wife, addressed 
 them in words to the following effect : — 
 
 " My dearest wife, my dear children, 
 and my beloved Daniel, stand round me, 
 for I am dying." Thereupon, there was 
 much weeping, and the poor woman had 
 to be carried out of the room, nearly in- 
 sensible. This pause was employed by 
 Gilbert in secret prayer and ejaculation — 
 " Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart 
 In peace ! — Lord, comfort the widow and 
 the fatherless, — Lord, give strength for 
 trial, and faith for dying like a Christian !" 
 When the poor widow had been so far 
 recovered as to be able to return to the 
 bedside, the dying man proceeded, with fre- 
 quent pauses and much weakness, thus : — 
 " I hope I may say, though at an infi- 
 nite distance, with the Apostle Paul, I 
 have fought a good fight. I have kept 
 the faith — the faith of my Savior, of his 
 holy Apostles, and of our covenanted 
 Kirk. 1 have kept it in bad report, as 
 well as in good— in the day of her extreme 
 suffering, as well as when godly Mr. Brown 
 was minister of Durrisdeer. They have 
 
 driven me from my humb)le but happy 
 home, and from my wife and children, to 
 the mountain and the cave ; but I have 
 ever said — 
 
 '' ' I to the hills will lift mine eyes, 
 
 From vhence doth come mine ai3 
 My safety cometh from the Lord.' 
 
 And I have ever found it so. I have 
 been shot at, pursued, hunted like a wild 
 beast, and exposed to disease, and pain, 
 and extreme weakness — whilst I was, un- 
 less at intervals, denied the voice that 
 soothes, the truth that cheers, and the 
 looks of sympathy that mitigate in the 
 extremest suffering ; and I am now, if it 
 shall please God to withhold for a little 
 the foot of the merciless and the ungodly 
 — I am now about to close my testimony 
 by sealing it with my latest breath," 
 
 This exertion was too much for his ex- 
 hausted strength ; and it seemed to all 
 that life had fled ; when, after a few short 
 and heavy respirations, he again proceeded 
 — " Lord, give me strength for this last, 
 this parting effort in this our covenanted 
 cause ! — Now, my dearly beloved, I leave 
 you ; for I hear my Master's call ; and 
 the Spirit and the bride say. Come ! I 
 leave you with this last, this dying advice : 
 Let nothing deprive you of your crown, 
 hold fast your integrity ; for He whom 
 you serve will come quickly, and terrible 
 will His coming be to all his enemies." 
 
 " Enemies, indeed !" vociferated Lieu- 
 tenant Douglas, who had unperceived en- 
 tered the apartment — " those enemies, 
 friend Gibby, are nearer, I trow, than ye 
 wot, and ready, with leave of this good 
 company here, to take special care that 
 his Majesty's enemies shall be suitably 
 provided for. Come, budge, old Benty, 
 and you too of the lion's den. Come — 
 my lambs, here, will be more difficult to 
 manage tlian the lions of your Jewish 
 namesake. Come, Mr. Dan — up, and be 
 going ; for the day breaketh apace, and it 
 will be pleasant pastime just to give us a 
 stave of the death psalm under the old 
 thorn, on the brae face yonder. Red 
 
THE PERSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS. 
 
 259 
 
 Rob's shoulder, here, has sworn a solemn 
 league and covenant against you ; and as 
 to my two front teeth, they are complete 
 non-conformists to Whigs- and Whiggcry, 
 throuo;h all generations. Amen !" 
 
 In vain was all this profane barbarity 
 poured on the ears of the dead man : old 
 Gilbert had breathed his last at the very 
 first preception of Douglas' presence — 
 his God had in mercy withdrawn hknirom 
 his last and most severe trsal. 
 
 " Look there, look there, look there !" 
 were the first articulate accents which 
 crossed the lips of the distracted widow — 
 " look, ye sons o' Belial — ye men o' bluid 
 — on the pale an' lifeless victim o' yer 
 horrid persecution. Ay, aff wi' him !" — 
 (for Douglas had now approached the bed, 
 as if to ascertain that no deception had 
 been practised upon him) — " aff wi' him, 
 to the croft, or to the maiden, or to the 
 thorn-tree ; shoot him, head him, hang him 
 — ha ! — ha ! — ha ! — ha !" — (Hysterically 
 screaming.) " He has escaped ye a'. Yer 
 bullets canna pierce him ; yer flames canna 
 scorch him; yer malice canna reach him, 
 yonder." (Pointing at the same time up- 
 wards.) " There, even there, whar ye an' 
 yer band shall never enter, the wicked 
 cease from troubling, an' the weary — ay, 
 thank God ! — the weary are at rest. Rest, 
 here^ indeed, they had none ; but there they 
 shall rest, when ye shall lie tormented !" 
 
 " Come, come. Mother Testimony, give 
 us no more of your blarney. Let us only 
 over the shank yonder, and you and your 
 whelps there may yelp and howl till the 
 day of judgment, if you please. But, as 
 for you, friend Dan," (speaking ironical- 
 ly, and imitatino; the Covenantino; languao-e 
 and manner,) " does the Spirit move thee 
 to budge f — has the Lord dealt bountifully 
 with thee ? — and will He ' save thee from 
 six troubles, yea, from seven .^' Come, 
 come, friend," taking him rudely by the 
 arm, and pulling him, with the assistance 
 of Red Rob, towards the door. " ' The 
 Spirit and the bride say. Come ;' there is 
 a maiden longing for thy embrace — yea, a 
 
 maiden whose lovers have been many, and 
 whose embrace is somewhat close. But 
 she, having taken up her residence in the 
 guid town of Edinburgh, is afar off; but, 
 lest thou shouldst fijol disappointment, my 
 lambs, here, have become somewhat frisky 
 of late, and they will be most happy to 
 give thee a little matrimonial music, to the 
 tune of 'Make ready, prcssnt, fire !' " 
 
 Daniel M' Michael had long been accus- 
 tomed to view death as a messenger of 
 peace. His days — now manifestly num- 
 bered — had been sarely troubled. His 
 faith in his Savior was, with him, not a 
 fluctuating, but a fixed principle ; like 
 Stephen, he might ascend to see heaven 
 opsned — and his soul was long absent in 
 feryent prayer. He prayed for a perse- 
 cuted kirk, for a persecuted remnant, for 
 his friends and for his enemies, even those 
 whose hands were raised ag-ainst his life. 
 
 '•The guid Lord," said he, '-forgive 
 ye, for ye know not what ye do ! The 
 thief on the cross was forgiven ; David, 
 the murderer, was forgiven ; and e'en Ju- 
 das himself may have obtained mercy. 
 Go, ye puir, infatuated, godless band ! it 
 is not for myself that I pray — it is for 
 you ; for when the day of wrath arrives, 
 where will ye flee to. To the hills ? — 
 they will be cast into the sea. To the 
 rocks ? — they will have melted with fer- 
 vent heat. To the linns and the glens r 
 — but where will ye find them, in that 
 great and notable day of the Lord .?" 
 
 Daniel was proceeding thus, when Red 
 Rob struck him over the head with the 
 handle of his sword. 
 
 " Down to the earth with thee and thy 
 everlasting jaw ' We want none of thy 
 prayers and petitionings. We are King 
 Charles' men, and our god is our captain, 
 our reward our pay, om- heaven is our 
 mess-room, and our eternity an hour's 
 kissing of a bonny lass." 
 
 Here the commander interfered, and 
 the poor victim was raised, though scarce- 
 ly able to stand on his legs from the stun 
 of the blow. 
 
260 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " And now," said Douglas, " for the 
 last time, wilt thou conform and preserve 
 thj life, or die r" 
 
 The poor man groaned, and fell on his 
 knees. The band was removed to a dis- 
 tance ; and, in a few seconds, the smoke 
 rose white and whiiling from the hill-side ! 
 The work of death was done ! 
 
 There is a small clump of old thorns 
 which faces the high road from Dumfries 
 to Edinburgh, as it enters the Pass of 
 Dalveen from the south. At the lower 
 extremity of this woodland patch, there 
 is a grey rock or stone, covered with a 
 thick coating of moss. It was whilst rest- 
 ins: ao-ainst this stone, that Daniel M'Mi- 
 chael was shot, about half-an-hour poste- 
 rior to the cruelties which have been nar- 
 rated. 
 
 A stone, with a suitable inscription, has 
 been placed over the mangled remains of 
 this good man, in the churchyard of Dur- 
 risdeer, whilst a marble and gilt monu- 
 ment, of the most elegant and tasteful 
 character, occupies the whole of the aisle 
 or nave of the church. The latter monu- 
 
 ment perpetuates the memory and the 
 virtues of the noble family of Douglas ; 
 whilst the former rud^ and now mutilated 
 flagstone mentions an act of atrocity per- 
 petrated by a cadet of the family. In 
 that day when the secrets of families and 
 individuals shall be made known, it shall 
 be manifested whose memory and virtues 
 best deserve to be perpetuated. 
 
 The eldest daughter of Mrs. Janet 
 M'Michael, or M'Caig, was married, after 
 the Revolution, to the second son (John) 
 of Thomas Harkness of Mitchelslacks, 
 from whom, in a lineal descent, the author 
 of these scraps derives his birth. Is it to 
 be wondered at, then, that we feel, through 
 every drop of blood and ramification of 
 nerves, a devotedness to the great cause 
 of constitutional freedom and rational re- 
 form .'' But we hope the cause of politi- 
 cal liberty may never be mixed up with 
 the concerns of that Church which our 
 ancestors founded on the dead bodies of 
 martyrs, and cemented with their blood. 
 We may return to this subject again, for 
 we have yet many recollections to record. 
 
 -^HI^IH^ 
 
 THE PEHSECUTEDELECTOR 
 
 OR, PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF SIMON GOURLAY. 
 
 Be not afraid, most courteous reader : you 
 will find nothing of party politics in the 
 foUowino; Passasjes from the Life of Simon 
 Gourlay. Know, then, that Simon was a 
 douce, respectable member of the town- 
 council in the burgh of L ; and it was 
 
 his lot or his misfortune, as he affirmed, 
 to be a sorely persecuted elector. But we 
 must allow Simon to narrate the history 
 of his persecutions in his own words. 
 " Weel," he was wont to begin, *' though 
 
 I verily believe I am ane o' the most mode- 
 rate men breathing, and although I seldom 
 or never Wished my head about either 
 Whig or Tory, I am firmly persuaded 
 there's no a man living that has suffered 
 mair frae baith parties ; they hae kicked 
 me about as thouorh I had been a sort o' 
 political footba'. Ye must understand 
 that I am ane o' the principal men in our 
 toun-council, o' which my faither was a 
 distinguished member afore me. By virtue 
 
THE PERSECUTED ELECTOR. 
 
 261 
 
 o"* my office, I had a vote for a. member o' 
 parliament to represent our ancient burgh ; 
 and it had been the advice o' my worthy 
 faither to me, owrc an' owre again — ' Si- 
 mon,' he usedlo say, ' if ye some day live to 
 hae the honor o' being called to the coun- 
 cil, r:member my maxim — aye vote for the 
 winning side. Mind ye this, if ye wish 
 yer kail to be weel lithed, or to enjoy the 
 respect o' yer neighbors.' Now, as 1 hae 
 said, my faither, was a very respectable 
 man ; he was meikle looked up to in the 
 toun, and his word, I may say, was the 
 law o' the council ; indeed, he had a most 
 wonderfully impressive manner o' deliver- 
 ing hiraseP ! and when he began to speak, 
 ye wad said it was a minister preaching ; 
 but, in the coorse o' nature, he died, hav- 
 ing; adhered to his maxim throug-h life, and 
 I succeeded him in the business. Now, it 
 was some years after this, and after 1 had 
 been called to the council, there was an 
 election took place for the burgh. There 
 were two candidates — a Mr. Wood, and a 
 Captain Oliver belonging to the navy. 
 They were both remarkably pleasant weel- 
 spoken gentlemen ; as to their politics, i 
 knew very little about them, for, as my 
 faither used to observe, it was a very un- 
 becomino; thino; for the like o' us, that had 
 only ae vote, to ask ony gentleman about 
 his principles. Weel, it was at this elec 
 tion that my persecutions began ; and sorry 
 am I to say that they had their beginning, 
 too, in my own family. One day 1 was in 
 the shop serving some customers, and, 
 before 1 was aware, Mr. Wood's carriage 
 stopped at the door. For onything I ken, 
 his politics were the same as those o' Cap- 
 tain Oliver ; but, somehow or other, he 
 was exceedingly popular in the toun, and 
 the laddies had * Wood for ever ." written 
 on the wa's and window-shutters, wi' bits 
 o' chalk. There was a crowd came rin- 
 ning, and cheered round about the carriage 
 at the shop door ; for Mr. Wood generally 
 threw awa a handful or twa o' siller amono-st 
 them. I wad hae slipped into the parlor 
 to been out o' the way, had it no been 
 
 that folk were in the shop, and I saw there 
 was naethincr for it but to stand fire. 
 Weel, as Fm telling ye, Mr. Wood and 
 twa or three ither gentlemen came into the 
 shop ; and really he was a very pleasant, 
 affable gentleman, wi a great deal o' man- 
 ners and condescension about him. I was 
 much interested wi' his look, and a good 
 deal at a loss what to say. There was nae 
 pride about him whatever ; but he just 
 came in, and took my hand as familiarly 
 as if I had been his equal, and we had been 
 acquainted for twenty years. 
 
 ' I have the honor of soliciting your vote 
 and interest at the approaching election, 
 Mr. Gourlay,' says he. 
 
 ' Weel, really, sir,' says I, ' as my fai- 
 ther afore me used to observe, I'll tak the 
 matter into consideration — it's best no to 
 be in a hurry ; but I'll be very happy — 
 that is, it will aSbrd me a great deal o' 
 pleasure — if I can obleege ye ; but — Fm 
 rather unprepared — ye hae ta'en me un- 
 awares.' 
 
 ' Well, I trust I may reckon upon you 
 as a friend,' said he — ' I shall be very proud 
 of Mr. Gourlay 's support.' 
 
 ' Why, sir,' says 1, ' as my worthy fai- 
 ther' And just as I said this, some o' 
 
 the youngsters about the door set up a 
 titter and a hiss. It was very provoking 
 for a magistrate to be lauerhed at in his ain 
 shop, by a parcel o' idle, blackguard, half- 
 grown laddies ; an', 'Ye young scoundrels,' 
 says I, ' Fll put half-a-dizen o' ye into the 
 blackhols.' And, wi' this, the young 
 persecutors hissed and tittered the mair, 
 and set up a shout o' derision. It was 
 vexatious be3^ond measure ; and, as I was 
 saying, I didna ken weel what to do, for 
 there were folk in the shop ; and, as Mr. 
 Wood and the gentlemen that were wi' 
 him, pressed me to say definitely whether 
 I wad gie him a vote, I observed Persecu- 
 tion also shaking its nieve at me frae the 
 parlor ! For, ye'll observe, that it was 
 also my misfortune to be plagued wi' ane o' 
 the sairest trials o' Job — an ill-tempered, 
 domineering woman for a wife. She was 
 
262 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 my second wife, and mony a time hae I 
 said, when she vexed rae beyond what my 
 spiiit could bear, that I could gang to the 
 kiikyard, and pick the remains o'my dear 
 first partner fiae the cauld grave, bane by 
 bane, could it restore her to my bosom 
 again, or free me frae the persecution o' 
 her that had succeeded her. Weel, as 1 
 was saying, whila Mr, Wood and his 
 friends were pressing me, I threw a glent 
 at the parlor door, which was half glass, 
 wi' a curtain ahint it, and got a glance o' 
 Mrs. Gourlay standing shaking her head 
 and her nieve, as meikle as to say, ' Gie 
 him a vote at your peril, Simon !' Whe- 
 ther my face betrayed ony visible tokens 
 o' my inward agony or no, I canna say, 
 but it so happened that the confounded 
 callants had got a peep at Mrs. Gourlay 
 ahint the parlor door, as weel as me, and 
 the young rascaLs, having seen her man- 
 oeuvres, cried out — ' Three cheers for Mrs. 
 Gourlay V The cheers gaed through my 
 ears like a knife — weel did I ken that they 
 would be rung through them for a week to 
 come ! I can hardly tell you how Mr. 
 Wood and the gentlemen left the shop ; 
 but their backs werena weel turned till a 
 quick rap cam upon the glass at the parlor 
 window ; and a quicker voice cried — 
 ' Gourlay, ye 're wanted.' J desired the 
 lads to attend to the customers, and 1 slip- 
 ped awa ben to the parlor. There sat her 
 leidyship, just like a tempest ready to 
 burst. 
 
 ' Ay, man ! — ye sitnpleton ! — ye nosie- 
 wax !' ciied she ; 'and ye'll hae the im- 
 pudence to gie a vote without consulting 
 me ! — ye'll say, as yer silly auld feither 
 said ' 
 
 * Come, Mrs. Gourlay,' says I, ^ ye may 
 cary yer cantrips upon me as far as ye 
 
 ik;;, but ye shanna, in my hearing, breathe 
 a word against the memory o' my worthy 
 fait'ier.' 
 
 * And ye sha"na vote for "Wood,' cried 
 she — ' or I 11 keep ye in het water to the 
 end o' yer days.' 
 
 * Really, my dear,' says I, ' I think ye 
 
 keep me in het water as it is. But I hae 
 gien nae vote as yet ; and, as my worthy 
 faither used to observe' 
 
 ' The mischief tak ye and yer faither !' 
 cried she ; ' can ye no speak without aye 
 bleth'rin' aboot him !' 
 
 ' Mrs. Gourlay !' says I, * I've warned 
 ye' 
 
 ' Simon Gourlay !' cried she, ' I've 
 
 cautioned ye' 
 
 And just as the altercation was like to 
 run very high, and to become very unseem- 
 ly, another carriage drew up to the door, 
 and out came Captain Oliver and his 
 friends. The Captain was a pleasant 
 gentleman, also, and very honest like. 
 My wife flew and opened the parlor door ; 
 and in an instant she put on such a hypo- 
 critical, weel pleased look. * Mercy !' 
 thinks I, ' what's that o't i — a woman can 
 change her countenance quicker than a 
 northern light, which glimmers and van- 
 ishes before you can say, Jock Robinson !' 
 Weel, I hastily rubbed my face wi' my 
 pocket handkerchief, and made a step for- 
 ward to the glass to see how I looked ; 
 for I thought it would be very unbecoming 
 in a member o' the council, and a magis- 
 trate o' the burgh, to be seen in a flurry, 
 or as if he had been flytiu'. I watna whe- 
 ther the Captain had heard that ' the grey 
 mare was the better horse,' in my house 
 or no ; for there were evU-disposed per- 
 sons malicious enou:};h to say such a thing ; 
 but he came straight forward to Mrs. Gour- 
 lay ; and — 
 
 ' I am most happy to see you, Mrs. 
 Gourlay,' said he ; 'I trust 1 shall have 
 the honor of your interest. I know 1 have 
 nothing to fear if 1 have the good wishes 
 of the ladies upon my side ; and, without 
 vanity. Ma'am, 1 believe I have them.' 
 
 My termagant smiled and curtsied to 
 the very floor. ^ Pray, step in, Captain,' 
 said she — * step in, gentlemen ; Mr. Gour- 
 lay is within. I am sure you have our 
 vote ; I answer for that.' 
 
 My blood boiled ; I fjlt indignation 
 warm upon my face. I was stepping for- 
 
THE PERSECUTED ELECTOR. 
 
 263 
 
 ward to pull her bj the gown, wheu the 
 Captaia and his friends entered. 
 
 ' I am very much obliged to you, Mr. 
 Gourlay,' said he, ' for the very hand- 
 some manner in which you have given me 
 your support.' 
 
 ' Not at all obliged to me, sir,' said I ; 
 ' but — but' 
 
 Mrs. Gourlay gave me a look ; and 
 its meaning needed no words to interpret 
 it. 
 
 ' Thank you, sir — thank you,' said the 
 Captain ; ' I am indeed obliged, very 
 much obliged, for the frank and hand- 
 some manner in which you have given me 
 your' 
 
 ' Excuse me. Captain,' says I ; ' but I 
 would wish a little time just to consider 
 — to mak up my mind, as it were ; for, as 
 my faither' 
 
 ' Dinna detain the Captain,' interrupted 
 my wife ; ' he didna ken yer faither ; ye 
 must not mind my goodman, gentlemen,' 
 said she ; ' he wad aye be considering and 
 considering — but just put down his name, 
 and nae mair about it. He daurna but 
 vote for ye.' 
 
 ' Daurna ! Mrs. Gourlay,' says I; 'thafs 
 very improper language t-o use to the like 
 o' me.' 
 
 'Ay, help us ! the like o' you, indeed, 
 Simon !' said she. ' Just put doAvn his 
 name, as I'm telling ye, gentlemen.' 
 
 I kenned it would be imprudent in a 
 man o' my respectability to flee into a 
 passion, and so held my tongue ; and the 
 Captain, turning to me, said — 
 
 ' Good mornino;, sir ; and I assure you 
 I am much obliged to you.' And, turning 
 round to my wife, and shaking her hand, 
 he added — ' And many thanks to you^ 
 ma'am.' 
 
 ' You are welcome, sir,' said she ; ' very 
 welcome to half a dozen votes, if we had 
 them.' 
 
 What took place between us after the 
 Captain and his party left, I will not re- 
 late to ye, for it was very disgracefu' — 
 I'm ashamed o't until this day ; indeed, I 
 
 carried the marks o' her nails upon my 
 face for the space o' a fortnight, which 
 looked particularly ill upon the counte- 
 nance o' a magistrate. Weel, it was in 
 the afternoon o' the same day, ane o' the 
 gentlemen belonging to Mr. Wood's party, 
 called again at the shop ; and, me being 
 in the haberdashery line, he wished to 
 purchase a quantity o' ribbons for election 
 favors. To the best o' my recollection, 
 he bought to the amount o' between twa 
 and three pounds' worth ; and, to my 
 surprise, he pulled out a fifty pound bank 
 note to pay for them. 
 
 ' I fear, sir,' says I, 'I'm short o' change : 
 an' ye can pay for the ribbons ony day as 
 ye're passing.'" 
 
 ' Oh, no,' says he, ' don't talk about 
 the change — it can be got at any time.' 
 And he laid the fifty pound note upon the 
 counter. ' I trust,' added he, ' we may 
 now reckon upon Mr. Gourlay 's support.' 
 
 ' Really, sir,' says I, '1 have not had 
 time to weigh — that is, to turn over the 
 subject in my mind properly ; but I will 
 consider of it. I am sure Mr. Wood has 
 my good wishes.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' said the gentleman, 
 leaving the shop, ' I shall inform Mr. 
 Wood that he may reckon upon you.' 
 
 Now, I would have called after him, 
 that he was by no means to reckon upon 
 ony thing o' the sort, for I had not made 
 up my mind ; but 1 thought it would look 
 ill, and I suffered him to leave with the 
 impression that I was a supporter o' his 
 party. I couldna think for a moment 
 that he proposed onything to a man like 
 me by no taking the change o' the note ; 
 and 1 intended to send it to the inn in the 
 morning as soon as the bank opened ; but 
 1 happened to say, in the course o' conver- 
 sation to a neebor that dropped into the 
 shop a short while after, that I thought 
 Mr. Wood was very liberal and flush o' 
 his siller ; and I unthinkingly mentioned 
 the circumstance o' the fifty pound note, 
 and the change, and the ribbons. Weel, 
 the person left the shop without making 
 
264 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 any particular remark upon the circum- 
 stance that I observed ; but what was my 
 horror, I may say my confusion and aston- 
 ishment, when, just on the edge o' the 
 evening (for it was in the summer time), 
 and just as we were shutting up the shop, 
 here's a great gih-avishing and a shouting 
 at the end o' the street, and alang comes 
 twa or three hundred callants, and some 
 young chields that were never out o' mis- 
 chief, wi' the effigy o' a man tied to a 
 pole ; and they had the odious thing 
 dressed as like me as possible ; but what 
 was worse than a', they had a great label 
 on its breast, wi' the words, ' Fifty pounds 
 for a pirn o ribbons f written on it; and 
 they had the audacity to stand shouting 
 and yelling, and to burn it afore my door. 
 I was in such a passion as 1 believe man 
 aever was in afore ! Me ! a magistrate, 
 and ane o' the principal men o' the town- 
 council, to be thought guilty o' takin a 
 bribe ! It was horrible ! horrible I I first 
 seized the yardwand, and I rushed into 
 the crowd, and laid round me right and 
 bft, until it was shivered to pieces ; and 
 then I ran into the shop, while the mob 
 kept hissing and yelling ; and I took the 
 fifty pound note, and gisd it to ane o' the 
 shop-lads — ' Rin,' says I, ' rin wi' that to 
 Mr. Wood, or to the gentleman that 
 brought it, and tell them I neither wish to 
 see their money nor their custom.' 
 
 So the lad ran wi' the note to the inn, 
 and did as I ordered him. But, oh ! 1 
 had an awfu' nicht wi' Mrs. Gourlay. 
 There wasna an ill name that she could 
 set her tono-ue about that she didna ca' 
 me. ' Silly Simon !' and ' Simple Si- 
 mon !' were the gentlest terms that she 
 used. I was ashamed to show my face at 
 the door, for I was the toun's talk. But, 
 still, notwithstanding a' the persecution 1 
 was sufferin', I was in a swither hoo to 
 act, for 1 vvas determined, if possible, to 
 abide by my worthy faither's advice, an' 
 vote wi' the winning: side. However, it 
 was hard to say which would be the win- 
 aiug side ; for, though Mr. Wood was a 
 
 great favorite wi' a majority o' the 
 working-classes, and even with a number 
 o' the council, an' though he was very 
 liberal an' lavish wi' his money, as I have 
 said, yet there was a great number o' re- 
 spectable folk took a very warm interest 
 for Captain Oliver. There were a vast 
 o' my best customers on baith sides, and 
 it was really a very delicate matter for me 
 to decide hoo to act— for ye will observe 
 I am the last man in the world that would 
 ofiend onybody , and especially a person that 
 I'm obleeged to. Weel, just while 1 was 
 pondering the matter, and considering in 
 which way my worthy faither would have 
 acted under similar circumstances, 1 re- 
 ceived a letter in the name o' three or 
 four leddies, from whom 1 had, first and 
 last, received a great deal o' siller — and 
 who, at the same time, were gey deeply 
 in my books — and they plainly informed 
 me, that, unless 1 voted for Captain Oli- 
 ver, they never, while they lived, would 
 buy a sixpence worth o' goods in my shop 
 again. 1 thought it was very hard for a 
 respectable merchant and a toun-council- 
 lor to be so persecuted and beset ; and 
 just while I was sitting very sair per- 
 plexed, in comes the postman wi' another 
 letter. It was frae a Glasgow manufac- 
 turer that I had lang had dealings wi' ; 
 and he trusted that I would oblige him by 
 voting for his friend, Mr. Wood ; or, if 
 not, that I would make it convenient to 
 pay off his bill within three days, or that 
 he would find it necessary to adopt means 
 to obtain payment. This was worse and 
 worse ; and 1 must inform 3'ou that the 
 account which he had against me never 
 would have been due but for the extrava- 
 gance 0' my second Mrs. Gourlay. I was 
 in a state 0' misery indescribable. I 
 wished frae the bottom d' my heart that 
 I had been a hand-loom weaver, workin' 
 for a shilling a-day, rather than toun- 
 councillor ; for then I micht hae been in- 
 dependent. However, my wife seemed 
 determined to tak the masterskep in the 
 business a'thegither ; an', what wi' the 
 
THE PERSECUTED ELECTOR. 
 
 2G5 
 
 talkin' o' the toun, the threatenin' o' cus- 
 tomers and creditors, and her everlasting 
 scolding, I rcfilly was greatly to be pitied. 
 The youngslers had bonfires round the 
 toun in honor o' the different candidates, 
 and J had an excellent peat-stack behind 
 the house. Weel, when I gaed out in 
 the morninsr, what should be the first 
 thing 1 observed, but that the half o' my 
 peat-stack was carried off bodily ! ' Con- 
 found ye for a parcel o' persecuting 
 thieves,' said I to mysel, ' but some o' ye 
 shall get transportation for this, as sure 
 as I am a magistrate !' Kowever, upon 
 second thoughts, and as I had nae doubt 
 but they had been carried off for the bon- 
 fires, and as it was likely that they would be 
 kindlino' them that ni2;ht ao-ain — ' Sorrow 
 tak ye,' thinks I, ' but I'll gie some o' ye 
 a snifter !' So what does I do, but sends 
 the shop-laddie awa to an ironmonger's 
 for a pound o' pouther ! ' Mortal man 
 canna stand it !' says I ; 'I'll blaw up the 
 scoundrels !' I acknowledge it wasna just 
 becoming the dignity o' the leading man 
 in the toun-council to tak sic revenge. 
 But I slipped awa round to the back o' 
 the house wi' a big gimlet in my hand, 
 and I bores holes in a dozen or twa o' the 
 peats, on the north side o' the stack, and 
 filled them wi' pouther ; and having closed 
 the holes, I was first gaun to tell them 
 in the house no to tak ony peats off the 
 north side o' stack, when a circumstance 
 occurred that drove it completely out o' 
 my memory. Mrs. Gouilay had an idle, 
 worthless, half-gentleman sort o' a bro- 
 ther, and, to my utter astonishment and 
 dismay, I found him sitting in the parlor 
 when I went in. ' Brother Simon,' said 
 he, stretching out his hand, ' 1 shall never 
 forget your kindness.' 
 
 ' My kindness !' says I — ' what do yon 
 mean P 
 
 ' Mean !' said my wife, in her usual 
 snappy, disdainful manner ; ' on account 
 of ir vote — which, it is believed, will 
 be the casling vote— think o' that, Si- 
 mon Gourlay — Captain Oliver has pro- 
 
 mised my brother a place under govern- 
 ment !' 
 
 ' My stars !' says T, ' a place under 
 government ! — our vote !— I think, ma'am, 
 ye micht hae consulted me before ye 
 bought a place for your brother wi' my 
 vote ; and, as my woithy faither used 
 to observe, 1 maun be sure about the 
 winning side before I promise ony thing o' 
 the sort.' 
 
 ' Consult you P cried she, like a fire- 
 brand — ' consult i/OM, indeed ! — I'll tell 
 ye what, Councillor Gourlay, if ye had a 
 spark o' natural a'ffection, as you ought to 
 have, for your lawful wife, ye wad scoin 
 to stand higgling about a paltry vote. 
 But allow me to tell ye, sir, the thing is 
 settled — ye shall vote for Captain Oliver ; 
 and, mair than that, I expect him and 
 his friends to dine here this afternoon !' 
 
 ' Dine here !' says I, and was perfectly 
 dumfoundered, as if a clap o' thunder had 
 burst on my head. I felt I really was 
 becoming a cipher in my ain house. 
 
 'Yes, sir — dine here,' continued she; 
 ' and see that ye mak them welcome, and 
 be proud o' the honor.' 
 
 I slipped awa into the shop, and I took 
 out the Glasgow manufacturer's letter, 
 and I thought it was a terrible thing to 
 be in debt, but still warse to be hen- 
 pecked ; but to be baith henpecked and 
 in debt, was worse than death itsel'. 1 
 remained in a state of stupefaction until 
 about three o'clock, when 1 was ordered 
 to dress for dinner. Between four and 
 five o'clock, Captain Oliver and seveial 
 of his friends made their appearance. 
 How 1 conducted myssP, I'm sure I canna 
 say — I was dowie enough, but I tried to 
 put the best face upon it that I could. 
 Everything passed ower weel enough until 
 after the cloth was withdrawn ; and then 
 wine was set upon the table, and speerits 
 for them that preferred them, and the ket- 
 tle was put upon the fire to keep boiling 
 for the ti)ddy. The servant lassie put twa 
 or three peats on the fire ; and just as she 
 was gaun out o' the room, I remembered 
 
26: 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 about the pouther ! Never was human 
 being in such a mortal state o' perturba- 
 tion before. The sweat broke a' owre me. 
 I rose and intended to rin down stairs, just 
 to say that ' 1 hoped, in the name o' safe- 
 ty she hadna taen the peats off the north 
 side o' the stack !' However, I had 
 hardly reached the stair-head, and the 
 sneck o' the door was still in my hand, 
 when — good gracious ! — sic an explosion ! 
 — sic a shout o' terror ! — sic a tumblin' 
 o' chairs and a breakin' o' glasses ! I 
 banged into the room ; it was full o' 
 smoke, and the smell o' sulphur was 
 dreadfu'. ' Aie ony o^ ye hurt ?' says 
 I. There was groanin' and swearin' 
 on i'ka hand ; and some o' them cried 
 ' Seize him !' — Seize me !' cried I — 
 ' goodness, sirs ! wad ye seize a magis- 
 trate in his ain house !' The lid o' the 
 kettle was blawn up the chimney, the ket- 
 tle itssP was driven across the table, wi' 
 its boilino; contents scattered ri^-ht an' 
 left, an nae small portion o' them poured 
 over the precious person o' Captain Oli- 
 ver ! Oh ! it was terrible ! — terrible ! — 
 sic a dilemma as I never witnessed in my 
 born days. I was in a situation that was 
 neither to be explained nor described. 
 Some o' them were fearfully scalded and j 
 scorched, too ; an' naething would satisfy 
 them, but that I intended to blaw up the 
 Captain and the company ! It was a sec- 
 ond ' Gunpouther Plot ' to secure the 
 election of Wood ! ' How did I answer,' 
 said they, ' for the pouther being in the 
 peats at all ? and why did I leave the 
 room in confusion, at the very moment it 
 was about to take place .?' 'Oh!' thought 
 I, as they put the questions, 'what a la- 
 mentable situation is mine for ony man, 
 but especially a magistrate, to be in !' 
 As for Mrs Gouilay, instead of sympa- 
 thizing for my distress, she flew at me 
 like a teeger, an' seized me by the hair o' 
 the head, b3fore them a'. Weel, the up- 
 shot was, that I was taen before my bro- 
 ther magistrates : and, sinking wi' shame 
 
 as I was, I tauld the naked truth, an' was 
 very severely admonished. I admitted 
 that I had acted very indiscreetly, an' 
 very unbecoming a member o' the coun- 
 cil ; but I assured them, on my solemn 
 oath, that 1 hadna dune sae wi' malice in 
 my heart. They a' kenned me to be a 
 very quiet, inoffjnsive man ; an' the Cap- 
 tain s party agreeing that, if I voted for 
 him the next day, they would push the 
 matter no farther, I gied him my hand an' 
 promise, an' the business was dropped. 
 But the next day, the great day of elec- 
 tion, came. Until I had promised, the 
 numbers o' the candidates were equal ; 
 and, sure enough, mine was the impor- 
 tant — the casting vote. Weel, just as I 
 was stepping down to the toun-house, wi' 
 my een fixed upon the ground — for ^I- was 
 certain that everybody was looking at me 
 — some person tapped me upon the shoul- 
 der, an' I looked up an' there was a 
 sheiiff's officer! A kind o' palsy ran 
 owre me frae head to foot in a moment ! 
 ' Mr. Gourlay,' said the man, ' 1 am sorry 
 to inform ye that ye are my prisoner^'' 
 
 ' Is it possible ?'' said I. ' W^eel, if 
 ye'll just allow me to gang up an' vote, 
 111 see about bail.' 
 
 ' Ye may come into the public-house 
 here,' said he ; ' but I canna allow ve to 
 vote, nor to go out o' my sicht.' 
 
 Weel, I was arrested for the debt that 
 I owed to the manufacturer. It was gey 
 heavy, and during an election though it 
 was, I found bail wasna to be had. I 
 voted nane that day, an' that nicht I went 
 to jail. I lay there about three months, 
 an', when I got free, I found that I was 
 also freed from the persecution o' Mrs. 
 Gourlay, who had broken a blood-vessel 
 in a fit o' passion, an', during my impri- 
 sonment, was buried by the side o' her ain 
 relations : an' such are the particulars o' 
 my persecution during an election ; an,' 
 certainly, every reasonable and feeling 
 man will admit I had just enough o' it, 
 an' mair than I deserved.' 
 
THE NEW FIRM. 
 
 267 
 
 THE NEW FIRM 
 
 A LEGEND OF MUTTONHOLE. 
 
 " Great and Advantageous Open- 
 ing. — No Deception, — Snooks & Grubb 
 respectfully inform the public of Mutton- 
 hole and its vicinity, that they have open- 
 ed those large and commodious premises 
 in Drybob Street, where they have con- 
 stantly on hand every description of soft 
 goods, at prices 50 per cent, lower than 
 any other house in the kingdom. Mousse- 
 line de laines from 3^d. to Is. 3d. and 
 upwards. 
 
 " N.B. — No mousseline de laine dress, 
 of any description whatever, is worth more 
 than Is. 8d. 
 
 " To prevent disappointment, ladies 
 should make an early call." 
 
 The above, with the usual abundant 
 sprinkling of italics, capitals, and full- 
 faced type, was the only new advertise- 
 ment in the columns of The Muttoiihole 
 Gazette^ on the morning of the 29th of 
 February, 18 — . " Who are Snooks & 
 Grubb V inquired the old ladies of the 
 village. " Who are Snooks & Grubb .'^" 
 echoed the young ladies, who, after study- 
 ing the Hymenial record, also glanced at 
 the advertisement. 
 
 Snooks & Grubb, two enterprising 
 young men, who had served their appren- 
 ticeships in one of the London warehouses 
 at Edinburgh, had decided on connecting 
 themselves in business, and astonishino- the 
 natives of some country town with a col- 
 lection of goods, obtained on credit from 
 some of the Manchester houses, who are ac- 
 customed to take such risk upon themselves. 
 Muttonhole happened to be the place pitch- 
 ed upon ; and so rapidly was their miorra- 
 tion effected, and the business of " open- 
 ing" performed, that, until they were 
 
 ready for customers, not one knew that 
 such a thing was in contemplation. What ! 
 commence business without makins; six 
 months' preparatory talk ! The thing 
 was preposterous and unprecedented. But 
 they succeeded nevertheless. The young 
 women had become tired of shop-worn 
 commodities, especially when sold by a 
 crusty old benedict ; and the temptation 
 of new goods, and two young bachelors, 
 were irresistible. 
 
 Awful was the alarm created in Mutton- 
 hole by the new shop. Old Mr. Maddox, 
 the proprietor of the old shop, stopped 
 taking in The Muttonhole Gazette^ because 
 he liked an " independent press," and 
 the Gazette had had the impudence to 
 publish the advertisements of Snooks & 
 Grubb, to his manifest injury. 
 
 The star of the young firm had been for 
 some days on the ascendant, and after a 
 good day's work, both parties waited in 
 the back parlor of the shop, as if each had 
 something to tell the other, with which it 
 would not answer to trust any walls but 
 their own. Each made awkward work of 
 his communication ; but it will be as well 
 to leave unrecorded their stammering pre- 
 face, and merely state, that each had come 
 to the resolution of taking unto himself a 
 sleeping partner. 
 
 In a few days. The Muttonhole Gazette 
 put forth the following : — 
 
 " Married — At Glasgow, on the 4th 
 inst., Ferdinando Augustus Snooks, Esq., 
 to Miss Anna Matilda, eldest daughter of 
 Hugo Groat, Esq., merchant. 
 
 " At Edinburgh, Mr. John Grubb, to 
 Miss Mary Tidd." 
 
 The effect of this announcement, upon 
 
2G8 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the weak nerves of the inhabitants of Mut- 
 touhole, was astounding. The old ladies 
 were indignant that this news burst upon 
 the community without giving them even 
 a nibble of it in advance of the general 
 promulgation ; and the unengaged young 
 ladies, each of whom had secretly, and in 
 her own mind, appropriated one of the 
 firm to herself, began to think' of return- 
 ing their patronage to Mr. Maddox. 
 Things began to look squally, when, as is 
 often the case in emergencies, a something 
 was found to stem the current, and save 
 the fallino; fortunes of the house of Snooks 
 & Grubb. This was nothing more or less 
 than their giving a " blow out," to which 
 all the elite of Muttonhole and its vicinity 
 
 were invited, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It was over. The party had broken up. 
 Old Maddox, who had lingered the last of 
 the guests, as if determined to do his full 
 share in eating out the substance of the 
 youno" men, had at last taken his hat. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Snooks sat alone. 
 
 '' My dear," said the lady, " I do not 
 see why you should have invited all that 
 canaille to your house." 
 
 " Policy, Anna Matilda. I wish to 
 become popular with the Muttonhole peo- 
 ple." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Snooks, I don't like to be 
 bored to death. I hope you have not so 
 soon forgot my standing in society. My 
 father was never anxious to please the 
 rabble." 
 
 " Mrs. Snooks, I hope you have not so 
 far forgot my interest as to stand in the 
 way of my business. The distant jingle of 
 your father's gold will not support us here." 
 
 '' John," said Mrs. Grubb to her hus- 
 band, as they walked home, " 1 am afraid 
 I have done you no credit to-night : you 
 know 1 always told you 1 was unused to 
 society." 
 
 " Why, Mary, I thought to-night you 
 succeeded to admiration, particularly with 
 the mothers and daughters." 
 
 '* Oh, yes ! and I have a great many 
 pressing invitations to visit them. But I 
 am dreadfully afraid of Mrs. Snooks. She 
 came and sat by me to-night, and said 
 something about the ' Great Unknown.' 
 I didn't make any answer ; and then she 
 said, that Waverly alone was enough to 
 set him up. What did she mean John .' 
 Is there to be another shop in the vil- 
 lacre .'' 
 
 Grubb gently explained her mistake to 
 her. It was a bitter evening in conclusion 
 for both parties ; one had to drive away 
 his wife's hysteric with sal volatile^ and 
 promises of indulgence ; the other to con- 
 sole an intellio;ent thousfh uncultivated 
 mind, for the lack of that information, 
 which one evening had convinced her was 
 all essential to her creditable appearance. 
 
 On the morrow, Mrs. Anna Matilda 
 Snooks went back to the house of her 
 father, to recover, as she said, from the 
 effects of an excessive infliction of rustici- 
 ty. The simple Mary Giubb grew daily 
 in the good graces of the dwellers in Mut- 
 tonhole. The minister's wife thought it a 
 pity " she had been neglected," but de 
 clared her an intelligent woman, neverthe- 
 less. Some others might make the same 
 remark, but all loved her ; and through 
 her popularity, the tide set sadly against 
 the warehouse of Mr. Maddox. At the 
 end of a few weeks Mrs. Snooks retui-n- 
 ed. 
 
 " My dear," said she to her husband, 
 " 1 have brought you a present." 
 
 " You have brought yourself Anna Ma- 
 tilda, for which I thank you before open- 
 ing this package, lest you should accuse me 
 of selfishness in thanking you afterwards." 
 The direction was in the countiuf»;-house- 
 hand of Mr. Groat. Snooks broke the 
 seal, and found documents possessing him 
 of a large landed property, and a check 
 for several thousands. " Anna Matilda, 
 after the unthinkiuo; remark 1 made a few 
 weeks since, I cannot accept of this." 
 
 " Mr. Snooks— Mr. Snooks !" 
 
 There was something hysterical in her 
 
TFIE NEW FIRM. 
 
 209 
 
 tone, and Snooks hastily interrupted her 
 by saying, " Allow me at least to secure 
 
 this to you. I" 
 
 '' No, no ! take it as I offer it, or" 
 
 favors, that the latter 
 him. 
 
 Poor Snooks, he pleased his wife alter- 
 nately with volatile and sugared words ; 
 the latter of the remedies brought her to, 
 because they imported an acceptance of 
 her father's gift. It is said of his Satanic 
 Majesty, and the wight who accepts his 
 
 becomes bound to 
 I do not intend to compare Mrs. 
 Snooks to the devil, but her present was 
 the p^chase money of-^the inexpressibles. 
 
 Snoo^was sold to her from that day. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " "^^Qse people pay a great deal of at- 
 tention: to your partner's wife, Mr. 
 Snooks." 
 
 '•'■ They would pay you the same, if you 
 would accept it." 
 
 " But 1 shall not. Who can endure to 
 drink tea out of earthern cups, and hear 
 disquisitions upon coals, bread, stocking- 
 yarn, the price of eggs, and the quantity 
 of potatoes requisite to dine a family of 
 thirteen. I cannot, Mr. Snooks .^" 
 
 " Mrs. Grubb does." 
 
 " Mrs. Grubb ! It is her element, the 
 hateful ignorant creature. I desire you 
 will not ask her or her husband to the 
 house again." 
 
 "He is my partner, my dear." 
 
 " Your partner ! 1 don't see why you 
 need such a partner. You can hire a good 
 clerk cheaper, and not be obliged to court 
 him and his ignorant wife. I wish you 
 would discharge him, Mr. Snooks. Jdon't 
 like the idea of finding Grubb capital to 
 trade upon." 
 
 A few days afterwards saw the follow- 
 ing announcement in the first column of 
 The Muttonhole Gazette : — 
 
 " Dissolution or Copartnery. — The 
 business heretofore carried on under the 
 name of Snooks & Grubb, was this day 
 dissolved by mutual consent. 
 
 " P. Fletcher, tiJi7we5s, F. A. Snooks, 
 
 " G. AuLD, witness. John Grubb." 
 
 " By mutual consent ;" yes, " mutual" 
 is the word when a strong man kicks a 
 weaker out of doors. 
 
 Agreeably to this arrangement, Mr. 
 Grubb and his poor ignorant wife, after 
 making their round of calls, with light 
 hearts, and a purse, which honest gains 
 had pretty well ballasted, stepped into the 
 Muttonhole omnibus, which was to con- 
 vey them away from that romantic village. 
 Every one who knew them regretted their 
 departure, except Mrs. Snooks and Mr. 
 Maddox. Indeed, the latter had reason 
 to be pleased ; for Grubb 's withdrawal 
 would, he knew, be for his own immediate 
 benefit. And he was right. The tide 
 soon turned into its old channel, and 
 old Maddox saw, with delight, all the old 
 faces back to his counter, with the excep- 
 tion of perhaps a few, who trimmed their 
 bonnets like Mrs. Snooks, and esteemed 
 it an honor to get a nod from her. In 
 proportion as business lessened, she, think- 
 ing the dowry she had brought inexhausti- 
 ble, doubled her expenses. She figured 
 in the walks around Muttonhole, in dress- 
 es which would have attracted notice, for 
 their expensive quali^;y, even in the streets 
 of Edinburgh, and crowds of the family 
 connexions, and the family connexions' 
 connexions, of the Groats, settled on 
 Snooks to rusticate, devouring his sub- 
 stance, like a swarm of locusts. 
 
 It was not long, therefore, ere old Mad- 
 dox had the satisfaction of reading in the 
 public journals, this notice : — 
 
 " The creditors of F. A. Snooks, draper 
 in Muttonhole, are requested to attend a 
 meeting in the Town Hall, on Friday, the 
 21st, at two o'clock precisely." 
 
 Years had passed. Two persons met 
 in the Trongate of Glasgow. There was 
 a look of uncertain recognition. 
 
 " Grubb !" 
 
 " Snooks !" 
 
 A hearty shaking of hands followed. 
 
 "How is your wife, Grubb P^ 
 
270 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Well. She has become acquainted 
 with Mr. Waverley." 
 
 has 
 
 forgotten 
 
 her hys- 
 
 " And mine 
 terics." 
 
 The four met on the following Sunday 
 at the country residence of Mr. Grubb, 
 who had, by industry, become possessed 
 of considerable property. Snooks also, 
 taught wisdom by his reverses, had re- 
 trieved his pecuniary affairs. The hus- 
 bands came in from the garden together, 
 where they had been walking for an hour. 
 
 " Ladies," said Snooks, " we have 
 entered again into copartnership. Anna 
 Matilda, do you think you can invite that 
 hateful IVJrs. Grubb to my house r" 
 
 " Mary !" said Grubb, " are you afraid 
 of Mrs. Snooks now ?" 
 
 It Is, perhaps, unnecessary to say, that 
 the utmost joy and harmony soon after 
 prevailed between the two families, and 
 they had the satisfaction of seeing a closer 
 alliance, by reason of the intermarriage of 
 their children. 
 
 THE SABBATH WRECKS 
 
 A LEGEND OF DUNBAR. 
 
 It was a beautiful Sabhath morning in the 
 autumn of 1577 : a few small clouds, 
 tinged with red, sailed slowly through the 
 blue heavens ; the sun shone brightly, as 
 if conscious of the glory and goodness of 
 its Maker, diila^ii;g around a holy stillness 
 and tranquillity, characteristic of the day 
 of rest ; the majestic Frith flashed back 
 the sunbeams, while, on its bosom, slowly 
 glided the winged granari.^s of commerce ; 
 there, too, lay its islands, glorying in their 
 strength — the May, shrouded in light, ap- 
 peared as a leviathan sunning in its rays — 
 and the giant Bass, covered with seafowl, 
 rose as a proud mountain of alabaster in the 
 midst of the waters. A thousand boats lay 
 along the shores of Dunbar. It was the 
 herring-season— and there were many boats 
 from the south and from the north, and 
 also from the coast of Holland. 
 
 Now, tidings were brought to the fish- 
 ermen that an immense shoal was upon 
 the coast ; and regardless of its being 
 Sabbath morning, they began to prepare 
 
 their thousand boats, and to go out to set 
 their nets. The Rev. Andrew Simpson, 
 a man possessed of the piety and boldness 
 of an apostle, was then minister of Dun- 
 bar ; and, as he went forth to the kirk to 
 preach to his people, he beheld the un- 
 hallowed preparations of the fishermen on 
 the beach ; and he turned and went 
 amongst thsm ; and reproved them sternly 
 for their great wickedness. But the men 
 were obdurate — the prospect of great gain 
 was before them, and they mocked the 
 words of the preacher. Yea, some of 
 them said unto him, in the words of the 
 children to the prophet — " Go up, thou 
 bald head." He went from boat to boat, 
 counselling, entreating, expostulating with 
 them, and praying for them. 
 
 " Surely," said he, " the Lord of the 
 Sabbath will not hold ye guiltless for this 
 profanation of his holy day." But. at that 
 period, vital religion was little felt or un- 
 derstood upon the Borders, and they re- 
 garded not his words 
 
THE SABBATH WRECKS. 
 
 271 
 
 He went to on3 boat, which was the pro- 
 perty of members of his own congregation, 
 and there he found Agnes Crawford, the 
 daughter of one of his ciders, hanging upon 
 the neck of her husband, and their three 
 children also clung around him, and they 
 entreated him not to be guilty of breaking 
 the Sabbath for the sake of perishing gain. 
 But he regarded not their voice ; and he 
 kissed his wife and his children, while he 
 laughed at their idle fears. Mr. Simpson 
 beheld the scene with emotion, and ap- 
 proaching the group—'' John Crawford," 
 he exclaimed, addressing the husband, 
 " you may profess to mock, to laugh to 
 scorn the words of a feeble woman ; but 
 see that they return not like a consuming 
 fire into your bosom when hope has de- 
 parted. Is not the Lord of the Sabbath 
 the Creator of the sea as well as of the dry 
 land ? Know ye not that ye are now 
 bravino; the wrath of Him before whom the 
 mighty ocean is a drop, and all space 
 but a span ? Will ye, then, glory in in- 
 sulting His ordinances, and delight in pro- 
 faning the day of holiness ? Will ye draw 
 down everlasting darkness on the Sabbath 
 of your soul .'* When ye were but a youth, 
 ye have listened to the words of John 
 Knox — the great apostle of our country — 
 ye have trembled beneath their power, and 
 the conviction that they carried with them ; 
 and when ye think of those convictions, 
 and contrast them with your conduct this 
 day, does not the word apostate burn in 
 your heart ? John Crawford, some of 
 your blood have embraced the stake for 
 the sake of the truth, and will ye profane 
 the Sabbath, which they sanctified ? The 
 Scotsman who openly glories in such a sin, 
 forfeits his claim to the name of one, and 
 publishes to the world that he has no part 
 or communion with the land that gave 
 him birth. John Crawford, hearken unto 
 my voice, to the voice of your wife, and 
 that of your bairns (whose bringing up is 
 a credit to their mother), and be not 
 guilty of this gross sin." But the fisher- 
 man, while he regarded not the supplica- 
 
 tions of his wife, became sullen at the words 
 of the preacher, and, springing into the 
 boat, seized an oar, and, with his comrades, 
 began to pull from the shore. 
 
 The thousand boats put to sea, and Mr. 
 Simpson returned sorrowful from the beach 
 to the kirk, while Agues Crawford and 
 her children followed him. That day he 
 took for his text, " Remember the Sab- 
 bath-day to keep it holy ;" and, as he 
 fearlessly and fervidly denounced the crime 
 of Sabbath-breaking, and alluded to the 
 impious proceedings of the day, his hear- 
 ers trembled, but poor Agnes wept aloud, 
 and her children clung around her, and 
 they wept also, because she wept. But, 
 ere the service had concluded, the heavens 
 besan to lower. Darkness fell over the 
 contrreo-ation — and first came the murmur 
 of the storm, which suddenly burst into 
 the wild howl of the tempest. They gazed 
 upon each other in silent terror, like 
 guilty spirits stricken in their first rebel- 
 lion by the searching glance of the Omni- 
 scient. The loud voice of Psalms was 
 abruptly hushed, and its echo jningled 
 with the dreadful music of the elements, 
 like the bleating of a tender lamb, in the 
 wind that sweepeth howling on the moun- 
 tains. For a moment, their features, 
 convulsed and immovable, were still dis- 
 tended with the song of praise ; but every 
 tongue was silent, every eye fixed. There 
 was no voice, save heaven's. The church 
 seemed to rock to its foundations, but 
 none fled — none moved. Pale, powerless 
 as marble statues, horror transfixed them 
 in the house of prayer. The steeple 
 rocked in the blast, and, as it bent, a 
 knell, untolled by human hands, pealed on 
 the ears of the breathless multitude. A 
 crash followed. The spire that glittered 
 in the morning sun lay scattered in frag- 
 ments, and the full voice of the whirlwind 
 roared through the aisles. The trees 
 crouched and were stripped leafless ; and 
 the sturdy oak, whose roots had embraced 
 the earth for centuries, torn from the deep 
 darkness of its foundations, was uplifted 
 
27-3 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 on the wings of the tempest. Darkness 
 was spread over the earth. Lightnings 
 gathered together their tenors, and, 
 clothed in the fury of their fearful majesty, 
 flashed through the air. The fierce hail 
 was poured down as clouds of ice. At the 
 awful voice of the deep thunder, the whirl- 
 wind quailed and the rage of the tempest 
 seemed spent. 
 
 Nothing was now heard save the rage 
 of the troubled sea, which, lashed into 
 foam by the angry storm, still bellowed 
 forth its white billows to the clouds, and 
 shouted its defiance loud as the war-cry of 
 embattled worlds. The congregation still 
 sat mute, horrified, death-like, as if wait- 
 ino- for the preacher to break the spell of 
 the elements. He rose to return thanks 
 for their preservation, and he had given 
 out the lines — 
 
 " Wlien in thy wrath rebuke me not, 
 Nor in thy hot rage chasten me," 
 
 wh^n the screams and the howling of wo- 
 men and children rushing wildly along the 
 streets, rendered his voice inaudible. The 
 congregation rose, and hurrying one upon 
 another, they rushed from the church. 
 The exhortations of the preacher to de- 
 part calmly were unheard and unheeded. 
 Every seat was deserted. All rushed to 
 the shore, and Agnes Crawford and her 
 children ran, also, in terror, with the 
 multitude. 
 
 The wrecks of nearly two hundred boats 
 were driftins: amonrj the rocks. The dead 
 were strewed along the beach, and amongst 
 them, wailing widows sought their hus- 
 bands, children their fathers, mothers their 
 sons, and all their kindred ; and ever and 
 anon an additional scream of grief arose as 
 the lifeless body of one or other such re- 
 lations was found. A few of the lifeless 
 bodies of the hardy crews were seen toss- 
 ing to and fro ; but the cry for help was 
 hushed, and the yell of death was heard 
 no more. 
 
 It was, in truth, a fearful day — a day of 
 lamentation, of warning, and of judgment. 
 In one hour, and within sight of the beach. 
 
 a hundred and ninety boats and their crew? 
 were whelmed in the mighty deep ; and, 
 dwelling on the shore between Spittal and 
 North Berwick, two hundred and eighty 
 widows wept their husbands lost. 
 
 The spectators were busied carrying the 
 dead, as they were driven on shore, beyond 
 the reach of tide -mark. They had con- 
 tinued their melancholy task for near an 
 hour, when a voice exclaimed — '* See ! 
 see ! — one still lives, and struggles to make 
 the shore !" 
 
 All rushed to the spot from whence the 
 voice proceeded, and a young man was 
 perceived, with more than mortal strength, 
 yet laboring in the whirling waves. His 
 countenance was black with despair. His 
 heart panted with sufibcating pangs. His 
 limbs bufteted the billows in the strong 
 agony of death, and he strained, with des- 
 perate eagerness, towards the projecting 
 point of a black rock. It was now within 
 his grasp, but, in its stead, he clutched the 
 deceitful wave that laughed at his deliver- 
 ance. He was whirled around it, dashed 
 on it with violence, and again swept back 
 by the relentless surge. He threw out his 
 arms at random, and his deep groans and 
 panting breath were heard through the 
 sea's hoarse voice. He ao-ain reached the 
 rock — he grasped, he clung to its tangled 
 sides. A murmur moaned through the 
 multitude. They gazed one upon another. 
 His glazed eyes frowned darkly upon them. 
 Supplication and scorn were mingled in his 
 look. His lips moved, but his tongue ut- 
 tered no sound. He only gasped to speak 
 — to implore assistance. His strength 
 gave way — the waters rushed around the 
 rock as a whirlpool. He was again up- 
 lifted upon the white bosom of the foam, 
 and tossed within a few yards of the wail- 
 ing but unavailing crowd. 
 
 " It is John Crawford !" exclaimed those 
 who were able to recognise his features. 
 A loud shriek followed the mention of his 
 name — a female rushed through the crowd, 
 and the next moment the delicate form of 
 Agnes Crawford was seen floating on the 
 
THE SABBATH WRECKS. 
 
 273 
 
 wild sea. In an instant, a hundred plunged 
 to her rescue ; but, before the scream of 
 horror and surprise raised by the specta- 
 tors when they beheld her devoted but 
 desperate purpose, had subsided, she was 
 beyond the reach of all who feared death. 
 Although no feminine^ amusement, Agnes 
 had delio;hted in buffetin"; the waters from 
 a child, as though she felt a home upon 
 their bosom ; and now the strength of in- 
 spiration seemed to thrill through her 
 frame. She was hidden from the gaze of 
 the marvelling spectators, and a deep 
 groan crept along the shore. She again 
 appeared, and her fair hand grasped the 
 shoulder of the drowning man ! A shout 
 of wild joy rang back on the deserted town. 
 Her father, who was amongst the multi- 
 tude, fell upon his knees. He clasped his 
 hands together — " Merciful Heaven !" he 
 exclaimed, " Thou who stillest the tem- 
 pest, and boldest the waters in the hollow 
 of i hy hand, protect — protect my child !" 
 
 The waters rioted with redoubled fury. 
 Her strcng-th seemed failings, but a smile 
 of hope still lighted up her features, and 
 her hand yet grasped her apparently life- 
 less burden. Despair again brooded on 
 the countenances of her friends. For a 
 moment, she disappeared amongst the 
 waves ; but the next, Agnes Crawford lay 
 senseless on the beach, her arm resting on 
 the bosom of him she had snatched from a 
 watery grave — on the bosom of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 They were borne to their own house, 
 where, in a few minutes, she recovered ; 
 but her husband manifested no signs of 
 vitality. All the means within their pow- 
 er, and that they knew, were resorted to, 
 in order to eflect his resuscitation. Long 
 and anxiously she wept over him, rubbing 
 his temples and his bosom, and, at length, 
 beneath her hand his breast jBrst began to 
 heave with the returning pulsation of his 
 heart. 
 
 " He lives ! — he breathes !" she ex- 
 claimed, and she sank back in a state of 
 unconsciousness, and was carried from the 
 
 room. The preacher attended by the 
 bedside, where the unconscious fisherman 
 lay, directing and assisting in the opera- 
 tions necessary for restoring animation. 
 
 As John Crawford began to recover, the 
 film of death that had gathered over his 
 eyes began to melt away, and he gazed 
 around in bewilderment, but unconscious 
 of where he was, and he sank into a trou- 
 bled sleep ; and, as he so slept, and his 
 strength returned, he cast forth his arms, 
 in imagination yet grappling with death. 
 He dreamed, and in his dream he shouted 
 for help. He prayed, and in the same 
 breath he blasphemed and reviled the 
 trembling spectators, that his troubled 
 fancy still pictured on the beach. 
 
 In a few hours the fisherman awoke from 
 his troubled sleep, which many expected 
 would have been the sleep of death. He 
 raised himself in the bed — he looked 
 around wistfully. Agnes, who had re- 
 covered, and returned to the room, fell 
 upon his bosom. " My Agnes !— my poor 
 Agnes !" he cried, gazing wistfully in her 
 face — " but, where — where am I ? — and 
 my bairnies, where are they .^" ^ 
 
 " Here, faither, here !" cried the chil- 
 dren, stretching; out their little arms to 
 embrace him. 
 
 Again he looked anxiously around. A 
 recollection of the past, and a conscious- 
 ness of the present, fell upon his mind. 
 " Thank God !" he exclaimed, and burst 
 into tears ; and when his troubled soul 
 and his agitated bosom had found in them 
 relief, he inquired, eagerly—" But, oh tell 
 me, how was 1 saved .^— was I cast upon 
 the beach ? There is a confused remem- 
 brance in my brain, as though an angel 
 grasped me when 1 was sinking, and hcdd 
 me. But my head is confused, it is fear- 
 fully confused, and 1 remember naething 
 but as a dream ; save the bursting awa o' 
 the dreadful storm, wi' the perishing o' 
 I hundreds in an instant, and the awfu cry 
 that rang frae boat to boat—' A judgment 
 I has come owre us !' And it was a judg- 
 ment indeed ! O Agnes ! had I listened 
 
 L 
 
274 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 to yer words, to the prayers o' my bits o' 
 bairns, or the advice o' the minister, I 
 wad hae escaped the sin that I hae this 
 day committed, and the horrors wi' which 
 it has been visited. But tell me how, or 
 in what manner, I was saved .'" 
 
 '* John !" said the aged elder, the father 
 of Agnes, " ye was saved by the merciful 
 and sustaining power o' that Providence 
 which ye this morning set at nought. But 
 I rejoice to find that your heart is not 
 hardened, and that the awful visitation — 
 the judgment, as ye hae weel described it 
 — which has this day filled our coast with 
 widows and with orphans, has not fallen 
 upon you in vain ; for ye acknowledge 
 your guilt, and are grateful for your de- 
 liverance. Your being saved is naething 
 short o' a miracle. We a' beheld how 
 long and how desperately ye struggled wi' 
 the rao-insr waves, when we knew not who 
 you were, and when it wasna in the power 
 o' ony being upon the shore to render ye 
 the slightest assistance. We saw how ye 
 struggled to reach the black rock, and how 
 ye was swept round it ; and, when ye at 
 last reached it, we observed how ye clung 
 to it wi' the grasp o' death, until your 
 strength gave way, and the waves dashed 
 you from it. Then ye was driven towards 
 the beach, and some of the spectators re- 
 cognised your face, and they cried out 
 your name ! A scream burst upon my 
 ear — a woman rushed through the crowd 
 
 — and then, John ! — oh, then !" But 
 
 here the feelings of the old man overpow- 
 ered him. He sobbed aloud ; and, paus- 
 ing for a few moments, added — " Tell 
 him, some o' ye." " Oh, tell me," said 
 the fisherman ; " a' that my faither-in-law 
 has said, I kenned before. But how was I 
 saved } — or by whom .^" 
 
 The preacher took up the tale. — 
 " Hearken unto me, John Crawford," said 
 he. " Ye have reason, this day, to sor- 
 row, and to rejoice, and to be grateful 
 beyond measure. In the morning, ye 
 mocked my counsel and set at nought my 
 reproof. True, it was not the speaker. 
 
 but the words of truth that were spoken, 
 that ye ought to have regarded — for they 
 were not my words, and I was but the 
 humble instrument to convey them to ye. 
 But ye despised them ; and as ye sowed, 
 so have ye reaped. But, as your father- 
 in law has told ye, when your face was 
 recognised from the shore, and your name 
 mentioned, a woman screamed — she rushed 
 through the multitude — she plunged into 
 the boiling sea, and in an instant she was 
 beyond the reach of help I" 
 
 " Speak ! — speak on !" cried the fish- 
 erman, eagerly ; and he placed his hands 
 on his heaving bosom, and gazed anxious- 
 ly, now towards the preacher, and again 
 towards his Agnes, who wept upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " The Providence that had till then sus- 
 tained you, while your fellow creatures 
 perished around you," added the clergy- 
 man, " supported her. She reached you 
 — she grasped your arm. After long 
 struggling, she brought you within a few 
 yards of the shore ; a wave overwhelmed 
 you both and cast you upon the beach, 
 with her arm — the arm of your wife that 
 saved you — upon your bosom .'" 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!' exclaimed the 
 fisherman, pressing his wife to his bosom 
 — " my ain Agnes I — was it you ? — was it 
 you } — my wife I — my saviour !" And he 
 wept aloud, and his children wept also. 
 " There is nae merit in what Fve dune," 
 replied she. " for wha should have at- 
 attempted to save ye had 1 no ! Ye 
 were everything to me, John, and to our 
 bairns." 
 
 But the feelings of the wife and the 
 mother were too stronij for words. I will 
 not dwell upon the joy and gratitude of 
 the family to whom the husband and the 
 father had been restored as from the dead. 
 It found a sorrowful contrast in the voice 
 of lamentation and of mourning, which 
 echoed along the coast like the peal of 
 an alarm-bell. The dead were laid in 
 heaps upon the beach, and, on the follow- 
 ing day, widows, orphans, parents, and 
 
THE STONE-BREAKER. 
 
 275 
 
 brothers, came from all the fishing-towns 
 along the coast, to S3ek their diad amongst 
 the drowned that had been gathered to- 
 
 gether ; or, if they found them not, they of the lost drave of Dunbar. 
 
 wandered along the shore to seek for them 
 where the soa might have cast them forth 
 Such is the tale of the Sabbath wrecks — 
 
 THE STONE-BREAKER. 
 
 If any of our readers had had occasion to 
 go out, for a couple of miles or so, on the 
 road leading from Edinburgh to the vil- 
 lage of Carlops, any time during the sum- 
 mer of the year 1833, they would have 
 seen a little old man — very old — employed 
 in breakino; metal for the roads. The ex- 
 
 CD 
 
 act spot where we saw him, was at the 
 turn of the eastern shoulder of the Pent- 
 land Hills ; but the nature of his em- 
 ployment rendering him somewhat migra- 
 tory, he may have been seen by others in 
 a different locality. In the appearance of 
 the old stone-breaker there was nothing 
 particularly interesting — nothing to attract 
 the attiintion of the passer-by — unless it 
 might be his great age. This, however, 
 certainly was calculated to do so ; and 
 when it did, it must have been accompa- 
 nied by a painful feeling at seeing one so 
 old and feeble still toiling for the day that 
 was passing over him ; and toiling, too, 
 at one of the most dreary, laborious, and 
 miserable occupations which can well be 
 conceived. Had the old man no children 
 who could provide for the little wants of 
 their aged parent, without the necessity 
 of his still laboring for them — who could 
 secure him in that ease which exhausted 
 nature demanded ? It appeared not. Per- 
 haps it was a spirit of independence that 
 nerved his weak arm, and kept him toiling 
 so far beyond the usual term of human 
 capability. Probably the proud-spirited 
 old man would break no bread but that 
 which he had earned by the sweat of his 
 
 brow and the labor of his hands. Per- 
 haps it was so. At any rate, this we know 
 that, at the early hour of five in the morn- 
 in^r, as regularly as the morning came, the 
 old stone-breaker had already commenced 
 his monotonous labor. But this was not 
 all. He had also, by this early hour, 
 walked upwards of four miles — for so far 
 distant was the scene of his occupation 
 from the place of his residence, Edin- 
 burgh. He must, therefore, have left 
 home between three and four o'clock, and 
 this was his daily round, without intimation, 
 without variation, and without relaxation. 
 A bottle of butter milk and a penny loaf 
 formed each days sustenance. His daily 
 earnings, laboring from five in the morning 
 till six at night averaged about ninepence ! 
 Hear ye this, ye who ride in emblazoned 
 carriages ! Hear ye this, ye loungers on 
 the well-stufi"3d couch ! — and hear it, ye 
 revellers at the festive board, who have 
 never toiled for the luxuries ye enjoy ! 
 Hear it, and think of it ! But of this per- 
 son we have other things to tell ; and to 
 these we proceed. 
 
 One morning, just after he had com- 
 menced the labors of the day, a young 
 man, of about four or five-and-twenty 
 years of age, accosted him, wished him a 
 good morning, and seated himself on the 
 heap of broken metal on which the old 
 man was at work, and did so seemingly 
 with the intention of entering into conver- 
 sation with hitn. This was a proceeding 
 to which the latter was much accustomed. 
 
276 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 it b:ing a frequsnt practica with the hum- j 
 blar class of wayfarers. The advances 
 of the stranger, therefore, in the present 
 instance, did not for a moment interrupt 
 his labors, or slacken his assiduity. He 
 hammered on without raising his head, 
 even while returning the greetings that 
 were made him. 
 
 " A delightful view from this spot," 
 said the young man, breaking in upon a 
 silence which had continusd for some time 
 after the first salutations had passed be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, drily ; and, 
 continuing his operations, he again re- 
 lapsed into his usual taciturnity ; for, in 
 truth, he was naturally of a morose and 
 uncommunicative disposition. Undeterred 
 by his cold repulsive manner, the stranger 
 again broke silence, and said, with a deep- 
 drawn sio;h — 
 
 '' How I envy these little birds that hop 
 so joyously from spray to spray ! Their 
 lifj is a happy one. Would to God I 
 were one of .them !" 
 
 The oddness of the expressions, and 
 the earnestness with which they were pro- 
 nounced, had an effect on the laborer 
 which few things had. They induced him 
 to pause in his work, to raise his head, 
 and to look in the face of the speaker, 
 which he did with a smile of undsfinable 
 meaning. It was the first full look he had 
 taken of him, and it discovered to him a 
 countenance open and pleasing in its ex- 
 pression, but marked with deep melan- 
 choly, and telling, in language not to 
 be misunderstood, a tale of heart- sickness 
 of the most racking and depressing 
 kind. 
 
 " Has your lot been ill cast, young man, 
 that ye envy the bits o' burds o' the air 
 the freedom and liberty that God has gien 
 them ?" said the old man, eyeing the 
 stranger scrutinizingly, with a keen, pene- 
 trating grey eye, that had not even yet lost 
 all its fire. 
 
 " It has," replied the latter. " I have 
 been unfortunate in the world. I have 
 
 struggled hard with my fate, but it h-as at 
 length overwhelmed me." 
 
 The old man muttered something unin- 
 telligibly, and, without vouchsafing any 
 other reply, resumed his labors. After 
 another pause of some duration, which, 
 however, he had evidently employed in 
 thinking on the declaration of unhappiness 
 which had just been made him — 
 
 " Some folly o' your ain, young man, 
 very likely," said the other, carelessly, 
 and still knapping the stones, whose bulk 
 it was his employment to reduce. 
 
 ^^ No," replied the young man, blu.sh- 
 ing ; but it was a blush which he who 
 caused it did not see. " 1 cannot blame 
 myself." 
 
 " Nae man does," interposed the stone- 
 breaker ; " he aye blames his neighbors." 
 "Perhaps so," rejoined the stranger; 
 " but you will allow that it is perfectly 
 possible for a man to be unfortunate with- 
 out any fault on his own part." 
 
 " I hae seldom seen't," replied the un- 
 gracious and unaccommodating old man ; 
 and he hammered on. 
 
 " Well, perhaps so," said the youth ; 
 " but I hope you will not deny that such 
 things may be." 
 
 " Canna say,'' was the brief, but suf- 
 ficiently discouraging rejoinder. 
 
 " Then let us drop the subject," said 
 the stranger, smilingly. " Each will still 
 judge of the world by his own experience. 
 But, methinks, your own case, my friend, 
 is a hard enough one. To see a man of 
 your years laboring at this miserable em- 
 ployment, is a painful sight. Your debt 
 to fortune is also light, I should believe." 
 " I hae aye trusted mair to my ain in- 
 dustry than to fortune, young man. I never 
 pat it in her power to jilt me. I never 
 trusted her, and, therefore, she has never 
 deceived me ; so her and me are quits." 
 And the old man plied away with his long, 
 light hammer. 
 
 " Yet your earnings must be scanty .^" 
 
 " I dinna compleen o' them." 
 
 " I daresay not ; but will you not take 
 
THE STONE-BREAKER. 
 
 277 
 
 it amiss my ofFaring this small addition to 
 them ?" And lie tendered him a half- 
 crown piece. " 1 have but little to spare, 
 and that must be my apology for offering 
 you so trifling a gift." 
 
 The man here again paused in his ope- 
 rations, and again looked full in the face 
 of the stranger, but without making any 
 motion towards accepting the proffered 
 donation. 
 
 " I thocht ye said ye war in straits, 
 young man," he said, and now resting his 
 elbow on the end of his hammer. 
 
 '^ And I said truly," replied the former, 
 afijain colorino;. 
 
 " Then hoo come ye to be sportin yer 
 siller sae freely .'' I wad hae thocht ye wad 
 hae as muckle need o' a half-croon as I 
 hae .^" 
 
 " Perhaps I may," replied the stran- 
 ger ; " but thafs not to hinder me from 
 feelino; for others, nor from relievino; their 
 distresses so far as I can." 
 
 " Foolish doctrine, young man, an' no' 
 for this warl. it's nae wunner that ye 're 
 in ditficulties. I guessed the faut was yer 
 ain, and noo I'm sure o't. Put up yer 
 halt-croon, Sir. I dinna tak chaiity." 
 
 " 1 hope, however, I have not offended 
 you by the offer ? It was well meant." 
 
 " Ou, I daresay — I'm no the least of- 
 fended ; but tak an auld man's advice, an 
 dinna let yer feelins hae the command o' 
 yer purse strings, otherwise ye 11 never 
 hae muckle in"t," 
 
 And the churlish old stone-breaker re- 
 sumed his labors, and again relapsed into 
 taciturnity. Silent as he was, however, 
 it was evident that he was busily thinking, 
 although none but himself could possibly 
 tell what was the subject of his thoughts ; 
 but this soon discovered itself. After a 
 short time, he again spoke — 
 
 " What may the nature an' cause o' yer 
 defeeculties be, young man, an' I may 
 speer .^" he said — "and I fanc}^ I may, 
 since ye hae been sae far free on the sub- 
 ject o' yer ain accord." 
 
 " That's soon told," replied the stran- 
 
 ger. " Three years ago, an aunt, with 
 whom I was an especial favorite, left me 
 two hundred and fifty pounds. With this 
 sum I set up in business in Edinburgh in 
 the ironmongery line, to which I was bred. 
 My little trade prospered, and gradually 
 attained such an extent that I found 1 
 could not do without an efficient assistant, 
 who should look after the shop while 1 was 
 out on the necessary calls of business. In 
 this predicament 1 bethought me of my 
 brother, who was a year older than myself, 
 and accordingly sent for him to Selkirk- 
 shire, where he resided with our father, 
 assisting him in his small farming opera- 
 tions ; this being the business of the lat- 
 ter. My brother came ; and, for some 
 time, was everything I could have wished 
 — sober, regular, and attentive ; and we 
 thus got on swimmingly. This, however, 
 was a state of matters which was not long 
 to continue. When my brother had about 
 completed a year with me, I began to per- 
 ceive a gradual falling off in his anxiety 
 about the interests of our little business. 
 I remonstrated with him on one or two oc- 
 casions of palpable neglect ; but this, 
 instead of inducing him to greater vigi- 
 lance, had the effect only of rendering 
 him more and more careless. But 1 did 
 not then know the worst. I did not then 
 know that, in place of aiding, he was rob- 
 bing me. This was the truth, however. 
 He had formed an infamous connection 
 with a woman of disreputable character, 
 and the consequence was the adoption of 
 a regular system of plunder on my little 
 property, to answer the calls which she 
 was constantly making on my unfortunate 
 relative, 
 
 " About this time I took ill, and, not 
 suspecting the integrity of my brother, 
 although aware of his carelessness, I did 
 not hesitate to trust him with the entire 
 conduct of my affairs. Indeed, 1 could 
 not help myself in this particular ; he 
 best knowing my business, and being, be- 
 sides, the natural substitute for myself in 
 such a case. For three months was I 
 
278 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDER.S. 
 
 confined, unable to leave my own room ; j 
 and, when I did com3 out, I found myself j 
 a ruined man. In this time, ray brother j 
 had appropriated almost every farthing j 
 that had been drawn to his own purposes ; j 
 and had, moreover, done the same by some 
 of my largest and best outstanding ac- 
 counts ; and, to sum up all, he had fled, I 
 knew not whither, on the day previous to 
 that on which 1 made my fiist appearance 
 in my shop after my recovery. That is 
 about ten days since *' 
 
 " Did the rascal harry ye oot an' ott ?" 
 here interposed the old stone -breaker, 
 kuappino- away with great earnestness. 
 
 " No, there was a little on which he 
 could not lay his hands— some consider- 
 able accounts which are payable only 
 yearly ; there was also some stock in the 
 shop ; but these, of course, are now the 
 prope-ty of my creditors." 
 
 '' But could ye no get a settlement wi' 
 them, an' go on .'" inquired the other, still 
 knapping away assiduously. " I'm sure 
 if you stated your case, your creditors 
 wadna be owre hard on ye." 
 
 " Perhaps they might not ; but there is 
 one ciicumstance that puts it out of my 
 powjr to make any attempt at arrange- j 
 ment. There is one bill of fifty pounds, > 
 due to a Sheffi Id house, on which dili- j 
 gence has been raised, and on which I am ! 
 threatened with instant incarceration. In ! 
 truth, it is this proceeding that has j 
 brought me here so ea.ly this morning, j 
 I expected to have been taken in my bed, } 
 as the charge was out yesterday, and 1 am j 
 here to ke; p out of the way of the messen- I 
 gers. I am thus deprived of the power i 
 of helping myself, or taking any steps to- j 
 wards the adjustment of my affairs." j 
 
 '* An' ould ye do any guid, think ye, { 
 if that debt war paid, or in some way ar- j 
 raug:)d r" inquired the other. j 
 
 '^ 1 think I could," said the party ques- 
 tioned. " My good outstanding debts are i 
 yet considerable, and so is the stock in | 
 the shop ; so that, had a little time been j 
 allowed me, 1 could have got round. But ! 
 
 all that is knocked on the head, by the 
 impending diligence against me. That 
 settles the matter at once, by depriving 
 me of the necessary liberty to go about 
 my aflf,j.irs." 
 
 " It's a pity," said the man, drily. 
 " VVha's the man o' business in Edinburgh 
 that thae Sheffield folk hae employed to 
 prosecute ye. What ca' ye him .^" 
 
 " Mr. Lano;rido;e." 
 
 " Ou ay, I hae heard o' him. An' will 
 he no gie ye ony indulgence I'' 
 
 " He cannot. His instructions are im- 
 perative, otherwise he would, I am con- 
 vinced ; for he is an excellent sort of man, 
 and knows all about me and my affairs. 
 Indeed, so willing was he to have assisted 
 me, that, when the bill was first put into 
 his hands, he wrote to his clients, strongly 
 recommending lenient measures, and bear- 
 ing testimony, on his own knowledge, to 
 the hardship of my case ; but their reply 
 was brief and peremptory. It was to 
 proceed against me instantly, and threat- 
 enins: him with the loss of their business 
 if he did not. For this uncompromising 
 severity they assigned as a reason, their 
 having been lately ' taken in,' as they ex- 
 pressed it, to a large extent, by a number 
 of their Scotch customers. So Mr. Lanij- 
 rid^e had no alternative but to do his 
 duty, and let matters take their course." 
 
 " True," replied the monosyllabic stone- 
 breaker. It was all he said, or, if he had 
 intended to say more, which, however, is 
 not probable, no opportunity was afforded 
 him ; for at this moment three laboring 
 men of his acquaintance, who were on 
 their way to their work, came up and be- 
 gan conversing. On this interruption 
 taking place, the young man rose, wished 
 him a good morning which was merely re- 
 plied to by a slight nod, and went his way. 
 
 At this point in our story, we change 
 the scene to the writing chambers of Mr. 
 Langridge, and the time we advance to 
 the evening of the day on which our tale 
 opens. 
 
 It will surprise the reader to find our 
 
THi^ STONE-BRtiAKER. 
 
 279 
 
 old stone-breaker, still wearing the patch- 
 ed and thread-bare clothes, the battered 
 and torn hat, and the coarse, strong shoes, 
 which had never rejoiced in the contact of 
 blacking brush, in which he prosecuted 
 his daily labors, ringing the door-bell of 
 Mr. Langridge's house, about eight o'clock 
 in the evening. It will still more surprise 
 him, perhaps, to find him received, not- 
 withstanding the homeliness, we might have 
 said wretchedness, of his appearance, by 
 Mr. Langiidge himself, with great courte- 
 sy, and even with a slight air of de- 
 ference. 
 
 On his entering the apartment in which 
 that gentleman was, the latter immediately 
 rose from his seat, and advanced, with ex- 
 tended hand, towards him. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Lumsden," he exclaimed, 
 " how do you do ? I hope I see you well. 
 Come, my dear sir, take a chair." And 
 he ran with eager civility for the conveni- 
 ence he named, and placed it for the ac- 
 commodation of his visiter. 
 
 When the old man was seated — 
 
 '^ Well, my dear sir," said Mr. Lang- 
 ridgs, " 1 am sorry to say that your rents 
 have not come so well in this last half year 
 as usual. We are considerably short." 
 And the man of business hurried to a 
 large green painted tin box, that stood 
 amongst some others on a shelf, and bore 
 on its front the name of Lumsden, and 
 from this drew forth what appeared to be 
 a list or rent-roll, which he spread out on 
 the table. " We are considerably short," 
 he said. " There's six or eight of your 
 folks who have paid nothing yet, and as 
 many more who have made only partial 
 payments." 
 
 '' Ay," said the man, crustily, " what's 
 the meanin o' that ? Ye maun just screw 
 them up, xMr. Langridge ; for I canna want 
 my siller, and 1 winna want it. Hao thae 
 folk, Thamsons, paid yet?" 
 
 " Not a shilling more than you know 
 of," replied Mr. Langridge. 
 
 " Weel then, Mr. Langridge, ye maun 
 just tak the necessary steps to recover ; 
 
 for I'm determined to hae my rent. I'm 
 no gaun to alloo myself to be ruined this 
 way. They wadna leave me a sark to my 
 back, if I wad let them. Ye maun just 
 sequestrate, Mr. Langridge — ye maun just 
 sequestrate, an' we'll help oorsels to pay- 
 ment, since they winna help us." 
 
 " Oh, surely, surely, my dear sir. All 
 fair and right. But 1 would just mention 
 to you, that though, latterly, they have 
 been dilatory payers — I would say, shame- 
 fully so — they are yet decent, honest, well- 
 meaning people, these Thomsons ; and 
 that, moreover, there is some reason for 
 their having been so remiss of late, although 
 it is, certainly, none whatever, why you 
 should want your rent." 
 
 " No, I fancy no,'' here interposed the 
 other, with a triumphant chuckle. 
 
 " No, certainly not/' went on Mr. 
 Lano;ridn;e, who seemed to know well how 
 to manage his eccentric client ; " but only, 
 I would just mention to you, that the rea- 
 son of the dilatoriness of the Thomsons, is 
 the husband's having been unable, from 
 illness, to work for the last three months, 
 and that, in that time, they have also lost 
 no less than two children. It is rather a 
 piteous case." 
 
 " An' what hae I to do wi' a' that .^" 
 exclaimed the other, impatiently. " What 
 hae I to do wi' a' that, I wad like to ken } 
 Am I to be ca'ed on to relieve a' the dis- 
 tress in the world r That wad be a bonny 
 set o't. Am I to be robbed o' my richts 
 that others may be at ease } That I win- 
 na, I warrant you. See that ye recover 
 me thae folks' arrears, Mr. Langridge, by 
 hook or by crook, and that immediately, 
 though ye shouldna leave them a stool to 
 sit upon. That's my instructions to you.'''* 
 
 " And they shall be obeyed, Mr. Lums- 
 den," replied the man of business — 
 " obeyed to the letter. I merely men- 
 tioned the circumstance to you in order 
 that you might be fully apprized of every- 
 thing relating to your tenants, which it is 
 proper you should know." 
 
 '' Weel, weel, but there's nae use in 
 
280 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 troublin me wi' thae stories. 1 dinna want 
 to be plagued wi' folk makin puir mouths. 
 There's aje a design on ane s pouch be- 
 low't. By the by, Mr. Langridge," conti- 
 nued he, after a momentary pause, *' hae 
 ye a young chield o' an ironmonger in 
 your hauns enow about some bill or anither 
 that he canna pay." 
 
 " The name .^" inquired Mr. Langridge, 
 musingly. 
 
 ^' Troth that I canna tell you ; for 1 
 never heard it, and forgot to speer." 
 
 " Let me see — oh, ay — you will mean, 
 I dare say, a young man of the name of 
 John Reid, poor fellow I" 
 
 " Very likely," said the client. "Is 
 he a young man, an airnmonger to busi- 
 ness, and hae ye diligence against him 
 'enow on a fifty pound bill, due to a Shef- 
 field hoose .^" 
 
 " The same," replied Mr. Langridge. 
 " These are exactly the circumstances. 
 How came you, Mr. Lumsden," he added, 
 smilingly, "to be so well informed of 
 them ?" 
 
 " ril maybe explain that afterwards ; 
 but, in the meantime, will ye tell me what 
 sort o' a lad this Mr. Reid is ■? Was he a 
 decent weel doin young man .^" 
 
 " Remarkably so," replied Mr. Lano-- 
 ridge, " remarkably so, Mr. Lumsden. I 
 can answer for that ; for 1 have known 
 him now for a good while, and have had 
 many opportunities of estimating his cha- 
 racter." 
 
 " Then hoo cam he into his present dif- 
 ficulties ?" 
 
 " Through the misconduct of a brother 
 — entirely through the misconduct of a 
 brother." And Mr. Langridge proceded 
 to give precisely the same account of the 
 young man's misfortunes, and of the pre- 
 sent state of his affairs, that he himself 
 had given to the old stone-breaker, as al- 
 ready detailed to the reader. When he 
 had concluded — 
 
 " It seems to me rather a hard sort o' 
 case," said the client. " But could ye no 
 help him a wee on the score o' lenity .?" 
 
 " 1 would willingly do it if I could ; but 
 it's not in ray power. My instruction- are 
 peremptory. I dare not do it but with a 
 certainty of losing the business of the pur- 
 suers, the best clients 1 have." 
 
 " Naething, then, '11 do but payin the 
 siller, I suppose .^" said the other. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, I fear. My clients 
 seem quite determined. They are enraged 
 at some smart losses which they have late- 
 ly sustained in Scotland, and will give no 
 quarter." 
 
 " Then I suppose if they war paid, 
 they would be satisfied," said the stone- 
 breaker. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Mr. Lumsden, no doubt 
 of //la^," exclaimed Mr. Langridge, laugh- 
 in»;. " That would settle the business at 
 once." 
 
 " I fancy sae," said the other, musing- 
 ly. Then, after a pause — " An' think ye 
 the lad wad get on if this stane war taen 
 frae aboot his neck .^" 
 
 " 1 have no doubt of it — not th« least," 
 replied Mr. Langridge, " for I have every 
 confidence in the young man's industry 
 and uprightness of principle. But he has 
 no friend to back him, poor fellow ; no one 
 to help him out of the scrape." 
 
 " Ye canna be quite sure o' that, Mr. 
 Langridge," said the old man. " What 
 if 1 hae taen a fancy to help him myself .'" 
 
 "You, Mr. Lumsden! — you !" ex- 
 claimed Mr. Langridge, in great surprise. 
 " What motive on earth can you have for 
 assisting him .^" 
 
 " I didna say that I mean to assist him 
 — I only asked ye, what if I took a fancy 
 to do't .?" 
 
 " Why, to that I can only say that, if 
 3^ou have, he is all right, and will get his 
 head above water yet. But you surprise 
 me, Mr. Lumsden, by this interest in 
 Reid. May 1 ask how it comes about .-" 
 
 " I'll tell you a' that presently, but I'll 
 first tell you that I do mean to assist the 
 young man in his straits. Pll advance 
 the money to pay that bill for him. Will 
 ye sec to that, then, Mr. Langridge ? Put 
 
THE STONE-BREAKER. 
 
 281 
 
 1113 doon for the amount oot o' the funds 
 in jour hauns, and stay further proceed- 
 ins." 
 
 ^Tr Langridge could not express the 
 su.piise he felt on this extraordinary inti- 
 mation from a man who, although there 
 were some good points in his cliaracter, 
 notwithstanding of the outward crust of 
 chui-lishness in which it was encased, he 
 never believed capable of any very striking 
 act of generosity. Mr. Langridge, we 
 say, could not express the surprise with 
 which this unlooked for instance of that 
 quality in Mr. Lumsden inspired, nor did 
 he attempt it ; for he justly considered 
 that such expression would be off nsive to 
 th i old man, as implying a belief that he 
 had been deemed incapable of doing a be- 
 nevolent thing. Mr. Langridge, therefore, 
 kept his feelings, on the occasion, to him- 
 self and contented himself with promising 
 compliance, and venturing a muttered 
 compliment or two, which, however, were 
 uni;i"'iciously enough received, on the old 
 man's generosity. 
 
 " But whar's the young man to be fand .?" 
 inquired the latter. 
 
 '• Why, that I cannot well tell you," re- 
 plied Mr. Langridge ; " for I was inform- 
 ed, in the course of the day, by the mes- 
 sengers whom I employed to apprehend 
 him, that he had left his lodging early in 
 the morning, no doubt in order to avoid 
 them, and they could not ascertain where 
 he had gone to." 
 
 '■ Humph, that's awkward," replied the 
 client. " I wad like to find him." 
 
 " 1 fear that will be difficult," replied 
 Mr. Langridge ; *' but I will call off the 
 blood-hounds in the meantime, and termi- 
 nate proceedings. 
 
 " Ay ; do sae, do sae. But can we no 
 get baud o' the lad ony way .^" 
 
 At this moment, a rap at the door of 
 the apartment in which was Mr. Langridge 
 and his client, interrupted further conver- 
 sation on the subject. 
 
 ' Come in," exclaimed the former. 
 
 The door opened, and in walked two 
 
 messengers, with Reid a prisoner between 
 them. We leave it to the reader to con- 
 ceive the latter's surprise, on beholding 
 bis acquaintance of the morning, the old 
 stone-breaker, seated in an arm-chair in 
 Mr. Lansjrido-e's writins; chamber. But 
 while he looked this surprise, he also 
 seemed to feel acutely the humiliation of 
 his position. After a nod of recognition, 
 he said, with an attempt at a smile, and 
 addressinfr himself to the old man — 
 
 " You see they have got me after all, 
 my friend. But it was my own doing. On 
 reflection I saw no use in endeavoring to 
 avoid them, and gave myself up, at least 
 threw myself in their way, in order to en- 
 counter the worst at once, and be done 
 with it." 
 
 " I dare say ye was richt, after a'," re- 
 plied the stone-breaker ; " it was the best 
 way. Mr. Langridge," he added, and now 
 rising from his seat, " wad ye speak wi' 
 me for a minnit, in another room .'" 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Lumsden," replied 
 Mr. Langridge. 
 
 " Will we proceed with the prisoner ?" 
 inquired one of the messengers. 
 
 *' No, remain where you are a moment, 
 till I return ;" and Mr. Langridge led the 
 way out of the apartment, followed by the 
 old stone-breaker. When they had reach- 
 ed another room, and the door had been 
 secured — 
 
 " Noo, Mr. Langridge, anent what I 
 was speaking to ye about regarding this 
 young man wha has come in sae curiously 
 upon us, juist whan we were wanting him 
 — I dinna care to be seen in the matter, 
 sae ye maun juist manage 't for me your- 
 sel." 
 
 " Had ye not better enjoy the satisfac- 
 tion of your own good deed in person, Mr. 
 Lumsden, by telling Mr. RM of the im- 
 portant service you i,.tend doing him." 
 
 " ril do naething o' the kind," replied 
 the old stone breaker, testily. " I dinna 
 want to be bothered wi't. Sae juist pay 
 ye his bill and charges, Mr. Langridge, 
 an' keep an ee on his proceedins after- 
 
282 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 wards, an' let me ken frae time to time 
 boo he's gettin on." 
 
 With thes3 instructions Mr. Langridge 
 promised compliance ; and, on his having 
 done so, the stone-breaker proposed to 
 depart ; but, just as he was about doing 
 so, he turned suddenly round to his man 
 of business, and said — 
 
 '' About the Tamsons, Mr. Langridge, 
 ye needna, for a wee while, tak thae steps 
 again th3m that I was speakin aboot. Let 
 them alane a wee till they get roun a 
 bit." 
 
 " I'll do so, Mr. Lumsden," replied the 
 worthy writer, who, the reader will ob- 
 serve, had accomplished his generous pur- 
 pose dexterously. He knew his man, and 
 acted accordingly. 
 
 " What's their arrears, again .^" in- 
 quired the other. 
 
 '* Half-a year's rent— ^£3 17s.," replied 
 Mr. Langridge. 
 
 " Ay, it\s a heap o' siller. No to be 
 fan at every dyke side. An' then, there's ; 
 this half year rinning on, an' very near 
 due. That'll mak — hoo much .^" 
 
 " Just £7 14s. exactly, Mr. Lumsden." 
 
 " Ay, exactly," replied the latter, who 
 had been making a mental calculation of 
 the amount, and had arrived, although 
 more slowly than his experienced lawyer, 
 at the same result. " A serious soom," 
 added the client. 
 
 " No trifle, indeed, Mr. Lumsden," 
 said Mr. Langridge ; " but it's safe 
 enough. They're honest people." 
 
 " Ye're aye harpin on that string," re- 
 plied the stone-breaker, surlily ; " but 
 what signifies their honesty to me if they'll 
 no pay me my rent.^'' 
 
 " True, very true," said the law agent. 
 " That's the only practical honesty." 
 
 '' See you an' get the arrears, at ony 
 rate, oot o' them, if ye can, Mr. Lang- 
 ridge ; an' if ye canna, I suppose we 
 maun juist want them. Ye needna push 
 owre hard for them either, since they're in 
 the state ye say. But ye'll surely mak the 
 present half year oot o' them. That 
 
 maun be paid. Mind that^ at ony rate, 
 maun be paid, Mr. Lansrridije."' And 
 saying this, he placed his old tattered hat, 
 which he had hitherto held in his hand, on 
 his head, and left the house. 
 
 On his departure, Mr. Langridge hastily 
 entered the apartment in which he had 
 left the messengers with their prisoner. 
 
 '* We're just waiting marching orders, 
 Mr. Langridge," said the latter, on his 
 entering, and making an attempt at play- 
 fulness, with which his spirit but ill ac- 
 corded. " My friends here are getting 
 tired of their charge, and anxious to be 
 relieved of him." 
 
 " Are they so, Mr. Reid V replied Mr. 
 Langridge, smiling. " Why then, we had 
 best relieve them at once." Then turning 
 to the principal officer — " Quit your pri- 
 soner. Maxwell — the debt is settled Mr. 
 Reid, you are at liberty." 
 
 The blood rushed to poor Reid's face, 
 and then withdrew, leaving it as pale as 
 death, and yet he could express no part of 
 the feelings which caused these violent 
 alternations. At length — 
 
 " Mr. Langridge," he said, " what is 
 the meaning of this } How do I come to 
 be liberated V 
 
 " By the simplest and most effectual of 
 all processes, Mr. Reid," replied the 
 worthy writer, smiling ; " by the payment 
 of the debt." 
 
 " But / have not paid the debt, Mr. 
 Langridge. I could not pay the debt." 
 
 " No ; but somebody else might. The 
 short and the long of it is, Mr. Reid. that 
 a friend has come forward and settled the 
 claim on which diligence was raised 
 against you. The bill, with interest and 
 all expenses, is paid, and you are again a 
 free man." 
 
 Again overwhelmed by his feelings, 
 which were a thousand times more elo- 
 quently expressed by a flood of silent 
 tears than they could have been by tlie 
 most carefully rounded periods, it was 
 some time before the young man could 
 pursue the conversation, or ask for the 
 
THE STONE-BREAKER. 
 
 283 
 
 further information which he yet intensely 
 longed to possess. On recovering from 
 the burst of emotion which had, for the 
 moment, deprived him of the power of 
 utterance — 
 
 " And who^ P^^y? ^r. Langridge, is 
 this friend — this friend indeed ?" 
 
 " Why, I do not know exactly whether 
 I am at liberty to tell you, Mr. Reid," 
 replied Mr. Langridge. " The friend 
 you allude to declined transacting this 
 matter personally with you, which seems 
 to imply that he did not care that you 
 should know who he was ; yet, as he 
 certainly did not expressly forbid me 
 to disclose him, and as I think it 
 but right that you should know to 
 whom you are indebted, I will ven- 
 ture to tell you. Had you some con- 
 versation, at an early hour this morning, 
 with an old stone-breaker, on the highway 
 side, about three or four miles from 
 town .^" 
 
 " 1 had. The old man was sitting here 
 when I came in." 
 
 " The same. Well, what would you 
 think if he should have been the friend in 
 question ? Would you expect, from his 
 manner, that he w mid do such a thing ? 
 or, from his appearance and occupation, 
 that he could .^" ^ 
 
 " Certainly not — certainly not. The 
 old man — the poor old man, to whom I 
 offered half-a-crown — who works for nine- 
 pence a-day — who never saw me in his 
 life before this morning — who knows 
 nothing of me ! Impossible, Mr. Lang- 
 ridge — impossible ; he cannot be the 
 man. You do not say that he is .?" 
 
 " But I do though, Mr. Reid, and that 
 most distinctly. It is he, and no other, I 
 assure you, who has done you this friendly 
 service." 
 
 " Then if it be so, I know not what to 
 say to it, Mr. Langridge. I can say no- 
 thing. I trust, however, I shall not be 
 found wanting on the score of gratitude. 
 I can say no more. But will you be so 
 good as to inform me, if you can, how the 
 
 good man has come to do me so friendly 
 a service .? Who on earth, or what is 
 he .?" 
 
 " Sit down, sit down, Mr. Reid, and 
 I'll answer all your questions — I'll tell 
 you all about him," replied Mr. Lang- 
 ridge. 
 
 Mr. Reid having complied with this in- 
 vitation, the latter began : — 
 
 " The history of the old stone-breaker, 
 my good sir, is a very short and a very 
 simple one. It contains no vicissitude, 
 and to few, besides ourselves, would be 
 found possessing any particular interest. 
 Your friend was, in his youth, a soldier, 
 and served, I believe, in the American 
 war. At his return home, on the conclu- 
 sion of that war, he was discharged, still a 
 young man, and shortly after mairied a 
 woman with a fortune " (smilingly) " of 
 some five-and- twenty or thirty pounds. 
 With this sum the thrifty pair purchased 
 two or three cows, and commenced the 
 business of cow-feeders. They pros- 
 pered ; for they were both saving and in- 
 dustrious, and, in time, realized a conside- 
 rable sum of money, which they went on 
 increasing. This they invested in house 
 property from time to time, till their pos- 
 sessions of this kind became very valua- 
 ble. 
 
 " For upwards of forty years they con- 
 tinued in this way, when Mrs. Lumsden 
 died, leaving her husband a lonely widow- 
 er ; for they had no children. On the 
 death of the former, the latter, who was 
 now an old man, and unequal to conduct- 
 ing, alone, the business in which his wife's 
 activity and industry had hitherto aid3d 
 him, sold off his cows, and proposed to live \ 
 in retirement on the rents of his property ; | 
 and this he did for some time. Accustom- 
 ed, however, to a life of constant labor 
 and exertion, the old man soon found the 
 idleness on which he had thrown himself, 
 intolerably irksome. He became misera- 
 ble from a mere want of something to do. 
 While in this state of ennui, chancing on-^ 
 day to stroll into the country, (this is 
 
284 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 what he told me himself), he saw some 
 laboring men knapping stones by the way- 
 side ; and, strange as the fancy may seem, 
 he was instantly struck with a desire of 
 taking to this occupation. He did so, 
 and has, from that day to the present, 
 now upwards of ten years, pursued it 
 with as much assiduity as if it was 
 his only resource for a subsistence. He 
 has, as I already told you, no family 
 of his own ; neither has he, 1 believe, any 
 relation living ; or, if there be, they must 
 be very remote ; and, as he strictly con- 
 fines his expenditure to his daily earnings 
 as a stone breaker — some ninepence a- 
 day, I believe — his wealth is rapidly in- 
 creasing, and is, at this moment, no trifle, 
 I assure you. Now, my good sir, when I 
 tell you that I am the law agent of this 
 stiange, eccentric person, and that I 
 manag-e all his business for him, I have 
 told you everything about him that is 
 worth mentioning." 
 
 '' There is just one thing, Mr. Lang- 
 ridge," said Mr. Reid, who had been an 
 attentive listener to the tale just told 
 him, " that wants explanation : can you 
 give me the smallest shadow of a rea- 
 son for the part he has acted towards 
 me ?" 
 
 " Nay, there you puzzle me ; I cannot. 
 It appears as unaccountable to me as to 
 you, although 1 have known Mr. Lums- 
 don now for upwards of fifteen years." 
 
 " Did you ever know him do a thing of 
 this kind before ?" 
 
 '• Never ; and I must say candidly, 
 that, although he is by no means d3ficient 
 in kindness of heart, notwithstanding his 
 rough exterior, I did not believe him ca- 
 pable of such an act of generosity.'' 
 
 " It is an extraordinary matter," said 
 Mr. Reid ; " and although I can have but 
 little right to inquire into the ino'ivjs for 
 an act by which I am so largely benefited 
 — it seems ungracious to do so — yet 
 would 1 give a good round sum, if 1 had 
 it to spare, to know the real cause of this 
 good man's friendship towards me." 
 
 " Why, that I suspect neither you nor 
 I shall ever know. I question much, in- 
 deed, if the principal actor in this affair 
 himself could give a reason for what he 
 has done. It seems to me just one of 
 those odd and unaccountable things which 
 eccentric men, like Mr Lumsdcn, will 
 sometimes do ; and with this solution 
 of the mystery, and the benefit it has pro- 
 duced to you, I rather think, Mr. Reid, 
 you must be content. I would, however, 
 add, in order to redeem Mr. Lumsden's 
 act of generosity from the character of a 
 mere whim, that your case was one emi- 
 nently calculated to excite any latent 
 feelino; of benevolence which he might 
 possess ; and that your manner and ap- 
 pearance — no flattery — are equally well 
 calculated to second a claim so estab- 
 lished. Yourself, and your peculiar cir- 
 cumstances, in short, had chanced to 
 touch the right chord in a right man's 
 breast, and hence the response on which 
 we are speculating." 
 
 Having thus discussed the knotty point 
 of the old stone-breaker's suddan act of 
 generosity, Mr. Langi'idge invited Mr. 
 Reid to put his affairs into his ha'ids, 
 promising that they should have the ad- 
 vantage, on his part, of something more 
 than mere professional zeal. This friendly 
 invitation the latter gladly accepted, and 
 shortly after consigned all his business 
 matters to the care of the worthy writer, 
 who exerted himself in behalf of his 
 client with an efficiency that soon placed 
 the latter once more in the way of well- 
 doing. And well he did : having sub- 
 sequently realized a very handsome in- 
 dependency. In the success of the young 
 man, no one rojoiced more than the old 
 stone-breaker, who frequently visited him 
 in his shop ; sometimes merely for the 
 purpose of seeing him ; at others, to 
 purchase some of those little articles of 
 ironmongery which the due preservation 
 of his dwjlling-house properly d.^maud^d. 
 Let us state, too, that, amongst his 
 purchases, were at different times, the 
 
THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED, 
 
 2S5 
 
 hammer-heads which he used in his oc- 
 cupation of stone-breaking. 
 
 In their first transaction in this way, 
 there was something curiously charac- 
 teristic of the old man's peculiarities of 
 temper. Mr. Reid, not yet perfectly 
 aware of these peculiarities, declined, 
 for some time, putting any price on a 
 couple of hammer-heads which his friend 
 had picked out. He would have made 
 him a present of them ; and to the lat- 
 ter's inquiry as to their piice, replied 
 evasively, and laughing while he spoke, 
 that he would tell him that afterwards. 
 
 " I tak nae credit, young man," said 
 the stone-breaker crustily, " tell me enow 
 their cost." And he pulled out a small 
 greasy leathern purse, and was undoing 
 its strings, when Mr. Reid laid his hand 
 on his arm to prevent him, at the same 
 time tellino; him that he would do him a 
 favor by accepting the hammer-heads in a 
 present. " What is such a trifle between 
 you and me, Mr. Lumsden — you to 
 whom I owe everything .^" 
 
 " You owe me a great deal mair than 
 ye're ever likely to pay me, at ony rate, 
 young man, if this be the way ye transact 
 business," replied the other, with evident 
 signs of displeasure. " Tell me the price 
 o' the hammer-heads at ance, and an' be 
 dune wi't. I hae nae broo o' folk that 
 
 fling awa their guids as ye seem inclined 
 to do," 
 
 Mr. Reid blushed at the reproof, but, 
 seeing at once how the land lay, with 
 regard to his customer's temper, he now 
 plumply named the price of the hammers, 
 sevenpence each. 
 
 " Sevenpence !" exclaimed the old 
 man. " I'll gie ye nae such price 
 Doonricht robbery ! I can get them as 
 guid in ony shop in the toon for saxpence 
 ha'penny. If ye like to tak that price for 
 them, ye may hae't. If no ye can keep 
 them." 
 
 Mr. Reid, now knowing; his man some- 
 what better than he did at first, demurred, 
 but at length agreed to the abatement, 
 and the transaction was thus brought to a 
 close. 
 
 We need hardly add, that the £50 ad- 
 vanced by the old man to Mr. Reid, were 
 subsequently repaid ; but the call is more 
 imperative on us to state, that, on the for- 
 mer's death, which took place about two 
 years after, the latter found himself named 
 in his will for a very considerable sum. 
 One, somewhat larger, was bequeathed by 
 the same document to Mr Lano-rido-e. The 
 remainder was appropriated to various 
 charities. And here, good reader, ends 
 the story of the Stone-Breaker. 
 
 -^<^»-»- 
 
 THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED. 
 
 " Now," said the traveller, as he wander- 
 ed up one of those retired Highland glens, 
 which characterise and beautify the Gram- 
 pian range, " I shall once more visit my 
 dear father and mother ; and my sister, 
 now woman grown, and what is more, my 
 sweet Helen M'Donald, who used to gather 
 
 the mountain berries along with me, and 
 pursue the little kids and lambs. Ah, 
 Helen was only about thirteen years old 
 when I left ; she will now be eighteen ; 
 a full grown beautiful woman, I have no 
 doubt. I wonder if old Andrew, her gran*d- 
 father, be still living ; he used to tell mo 
 
286 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 such tales of Prince Charlie, and Preston- 
 pi!ns, and Culloden, thatmyhair yet almost 
 stands erect at the recoUoction of th^m. 
 And then there was Euphemia M'Gregor, 
 hisson\s wife, the mother of my dear He- 
 leu ; and Oscar and Fingal, my father's 
 faithful attendants and servants : and we 
 had such fun during the long winter nights, 
 when the sheep were in a place of safety, 
 and the door was barred, and the peat-fire 
 was burning clear, and the very cat and 
 kittjn enjoyed the cheery fireside — such 
 questions and commands, such guessing 
 arnd forfeiting, and riding round the fire on 
 a besom, and holding one's mouth full of 
 water to discharge on the person's face 
 who should first laugh at our grotesque 
 g !Stures and looks : but night is approach- 
 ing whilst I linger by the way — my whole 
 heait heaves to behold once more the 
 sweet home of my youth and innocence.'" 
 Thus said, or thought aloud, a young 
 man, seemingly about twenty-two years of 
 age, as he ascended Glen and ap- 
 proached the thatched sheiling which stood 
 on the margin of a small mountain stream, 
 which wended its mazes alons; the tortu- 
 ous glen. He had been five years, come 
 the time, absent from his mountain home, 
 and had, during that period, endured and 
 encountered a variety of fortune. He sung 
 as he went along — 
 
 •' A light heart and a thin pair of breeches, 
 Goes through the world, brave boys !" 
 
 switching the bent and heather bells with 
 his cane, and treading with a step as elas- 
 tic as was his bosom. At last, just as the 
 sun was tinging with his departing ray the 
 top of the highest mountain in the neigh- 
 borhood, he turned the corner of a pro- 
 jecting rock, and came at once into full 
 and distinct view of his home. It was then 
 gray twilight, and objects began to assume 
 an indistinct appearance. Walking by the 
 side of the stream, as if meditating, there 
 appeared a figure wrapped up in a High- 
 land plaid. It immediately struck the 
 young sailor that this was his sister ; and 
 
 in order to give her what is called an 
 agreeable surprise, he stepped aside unper- 
 ceived by her, and stood concealed behind 
 a projecting cliff, which the stream had 
 stripped bare of soil in its passing current. 
 The figure came nearer and nearer, and 
 then, sighing deeply, uttered some sound, 
 which his ear could not catch. At la.st, 
 tears and sobs followed, and he heard the 
 words most distinctly pronounced — " Alas, 
 I can never truly love him ! 1 shall be 
 the most wretched of women ! But he 
 whom I loved as angels love — Oh, he, my 
 own dear William iVrPherson,i8 dead and 
 gone, and I can never see him more." 
 
 "But you can though, my own dear 
 Helen ;" and in an instant he held her 
 lifeless and motionless in his arms. She 
 had uttered just one awful scream, which 
 was re-echo jd by the surrounding cliflfs, 
 and had ceased to feel or know anything 
 connected with the living woild. Alas! 
 she was dead, and he was distracted. He 
 ran to the house calling aloud for help ; 
 but every one of its inmates, even the 
 mother who bore him, flad from his pre- 
 sence, uttering ejaculations, intimating the 
 greatest terror at his presence. In vain 
 did he protest with tears — I am your son 
 and no other — I am Willie M'Ph arson, 
 your lost boy ! His words bore no convic- 
 tion along with them. A vaunt, foul fiend ! 
 Avaunt, in the name of God and the Holy 
 Trinity — trouble me not — trouble me not ; 
 my dear child is in heaven ; and thou, foul 
 spirit, art permitted for a time to assume 
 his shape. His sister, too, was equally 
 incredulous, and his father had not yet 
 returned from the hill. What was to be 
 done ; Helen M 'Donald was in all proba- 
 bility dead, or dying helpless and alone, 
 and yet no one would come to her assist- 
 ance. At last, Oscar and Fingal made 
 their appearance in advance of his father ; 
 and though they barked at first upon his 
 naming them, they immediately ran up to 
 him and jumped up upon his back, his 
 neck, his head, his whole person. They 
 seemed in as much danger of expressing 
 
THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED. 
 
 287 
 
 of joy as poor Helen had been of dying of 
 feai'ful surprise. 
 
 " Stand bac '," said the delighted and 
 beliavino; father to his wife, who absolute- 
 ly clung to his knees to prevent his ad- 
 vance — " Stand back, woman ; d'ye think 
 Fiuii;al and Oscar would caress the foul 
 fiend in that manner ? Na — na — na. Ha ! 
 ha! ha!" And he fell upon his son's 
 shoulders, weeping and crying convul- 
 sively. 
 
 ^' My father — my dear, dear father." 
 
 ^' My son — my lost, my only, my re- 
 stored son,'' was the response. 
 
 But Helen, in an instant, brought the 
 whole party, consisting of father, mother, 
 sister, and son, to her aid : a light was 
 procured and held over her face : her 
 bosom was bared, and rubbed ; her fore- 
 head had water plentifully poured upon it 
 from the stream ; and, at last, symptoms 
 of returning life appeared. Oscar and 
 Fingal, in the meantime had licked Helen's 
 face, and neck, and shoulders, all over ; 
 and whether from any virtue in the pecu- 
 liar touch of their tongues, or from the 
 natural expiry of the trance, Helen breath- 
 ed heavily — her bosom heaved ; William 
 looked on her cheeks, and they were flush- 
 ed with red. In a moment he had her in 
 his arms. Helen, for some time, sulFered 
 exquisite bodily torture ; but was at last 
 capable of having the truth made gradu- 
 ally known to her. She said surely she 
 had been dreaming, as she had often done, 
 and that she was still surely asleep, and 
 that she would waken, at last, as she had 
 done before, to a dreadful perception of the 
 reality. William M'Pherson still con- 
 tinued to clasp and assure Helen of his 
 personal identity. But even when con- 
 vinced of the reality of William's presence, 
 Helen did not evince that degree of hap- 
 piness which might have been expected ; 
 she sat stupified and passive, and seemingly 
 insensible to everything around her ; her 
 mind was evidently wandering to a disa- 
 greeable subject. However, she was pre- 
 vailed upon to return with the family into 
 
 the house, and, worn out and fatigued, she 
 was soon after put to rest in an adjoining 
 apartment. 
 
 In the meantime, the young sailor was 
 questioned minutely respecting the reason 
 of his re-appearance after he had been so 
 long reported and believed by everybody 
 to be dead. 
 
 Without repeating his answer in his own 
 words, which were interlarded with sea- 
 phrases, we may state, in general, that it 
 was to the following purpose : — He had 
 gone to Dundee, with the view of making 
 some small purchases for the household, 
 when he accidentally fell in with a recruit- 
 ing party, who were beating up for ma- 
 rines for the fleet, then just returned from 
 the capture of the Danish fleet at Copen- 
 hagen. Inexperienced as he was, he was en- 
 ticed into a public-house on the shore, and 
 awakened, after a stupor of some hours, 
 on board a British man-of-war. In a few 
 hours, he was conveyed out to sea, along 
 with several others, and was conveyed im- 
 mediately to Spithead. Having it ulti- 
 mately put to his choice whether he would 
 stand by a gun, or handle a musket and a 
 sabre, he choose the former, and was 
 regularly entered as an able-bodied seaman 
 on board his Majesty's ship the Victory. 
 In her, alono; with Admiral Nelson, he 
 sailed for the West Indies, and then cross- 
 ed the Atlantic, back to the shores of 
 France. The enemy still eluding the 
 eagle-eye of Lord Nelson, he sailed for the 
 Mediterranean, and, after various landings 
 and inquiries, eame upon the French fleet, 
 moored closely inland on the coast of Fgypt, 
 at the mouth of the Nile. He was in the 
 dreadful battle of the Nile, and assisted in 
 rescuing several who were blown up, but 
 not killed in the L^ Orient. After the bat- 
 tle he had promotion, and ultimately prize- 
 money, on account of his brave and hu- 
 mane conduct, and sailed again for Naples, 
 and latterly in quest of the Spanish fleet 
 on the coast of Spain. He was close by 
 Nelson when he was shot by a rifleman 
 from the mast of the ship with which he 
 
28S 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 had grappled, and saw the fellow who did 
 the djed drop on the deck, bcmg sliot 
 through the heart by a marine on board of 
 Lord Nelson's ship. After the battle, he 
 was returned to Plymouth, having been 
 wounded in the leg — a musket-ball had 
 passed through the flesh, and somewhat, 
 but not greatly, injured the bone. He spent 
 some months in the hospital, and was then 
 dispatched to the coast of France on board 
 the Spitfire. There he had distinguished 
 himself in cutting out and burning several 
 of the enemy's craft at Havre ; and be- 
 ing again wounded, though slightly, in the 
 arm, ho was put upon the pension-list, 
 and allowed to dispose of himself till his 
 country should again require his ser- 
 vic3S. In these circumstances he began 
 to think of his home, and, with some hun- 
 dreds of pounds in the bank, and a pension 
 order of about two shilllings and sixpence 
 a-day in his pocket, he arrived at Dundee 
 in a sailing vessel, and was on his way to 
 his native glen when the reader first be- 
 came acquainted with him. When this 
 narrative was finished, his father retired 
 for an instant, and then appeared with 
 some papers, which he had extracted from 
 his private depositories. He first read a 
 letter, which purported to come from a 
 King's ofl&cer, who si2;ned himself William 
 Wilson, and who informed his afflicted fa- 
 ther that his son had been induced to go 
 on board a King's ship, to see the arrange- 
 ments which it exhibited ; but that, in 
 passing from the small boat to the deck, 
 he had missed a foot, and been drowned. 
 The letter was dated on board the Spitfire; 
 and mentioned, likewise, that the ship was 
 under sailing orders for the general ren- 
 dezvous at Spithead. The poor distracted 
 parent had come to Dundee, but could 
 obtain no information of his son — only, 
 about three months after, he heard that a 
 dead body, severely mutilated, had been 
 thrown out upon the sands of St. An- 
 drew's ; and, on account of the state of 
 his decomposition, had immediately been 
 ijiterred in Christian burial ground. A 
 
 second pilgrimag3 to St. Andrew's wis 
 undertaken by the father and dau^htBr ; 
 but nothing satisfactory was discovered, 
 except that the corps exhibit3d marks of 
 having been dressed in a bias and white 
 striped waistcoat, which answered to thit 
 in which he had left Denhead, his home 
 in the Highlands. After this last discove- 
 ry, all farther inquiry ceased, and the 
 afflicted family fulfilled the period of thJr 
 sincere mourning, and things returned 
 nearly to their usual bearing. But when 
 father, and mother, and sister had S3em- 
 ingly got over the worst of their gri jf, 
 Helen M'Donald still pined in silence over 
 the recollections of her early companion ; 
 and as she expanded into womanhood, her 
 grief seemed to grow " with her growth ;" 
 and her father became extremely anxious 
 to have Helen properly and creditably dis- 
 posed of in marriage. 
 
 'i'he son of a small proprietor in the 
 neighborhood had lately becorde laird 
 himseP ; and, though far exceeding Helen 
 in years, having had frequent opportunities 
 of seeing her, particularly at church, on 
 Sabbath, he had become enamored of so 
 much beauty and innocence. Proposals 
 had been made to the father, which wore 
 immediately accepted ; and the young 
 lady had been dealt with, as young ladi,>s 
 in such situations generally are, by argu- 
 ments of interest and worldly comfort, and 
 even grandeur. First impressions are 
 deep — oh, how deep ! — and Helen could 
 not yet entirely exclude the image of her 
 beloved William from her recollection. 
 Laird M'Wharry was urgent in his suit — 
 her fiither, whom she afi"ectionate^y loved, 
 was troubled and anxious — her mother, too, 
 pressed home upon her attention pruden- 
 tial considerations — so, after long delays 
 and many internal struggles, Helen at last 
 consented to become, but not till so«:ne 
 months afterwards, Mrs. or Lady iM'Whar- 
 ry, as the peasantry styled the laird's 
 wife. It was during her visit (previous to 
 her marriage) to M'Wharry, that the in- 
 cident took place which thus connects our 
 
h - 
 
 THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED. 
 
 289 
 
 narrative, and brings us up to the point of 
 tini8 when William M'Pherson arrived at 
 Denhead. 
 
 William, learning from Helen, as well 
 as from his father and mother, how mat- 
 ters were situated, suddenly disappeared, 
 and left no means of tracing the place of 
 his retreat. Days, and even weeks passed, 
 but no letter arrived, and no message came. 
 In the meantime, the day appointed for 
 the marriage approached, and Helen seem- 
 ed to have made up her mind to submit 
 to necessity — at least, she tried to look 
 cheerful, and put as good a face upon it 
 as many tears, shed in private, would per- 
 mit. 
 
 Laird M'Wharry was a true Highlander 
 — he had much of that clannish feeling 
 which is peculiar to the Celt. He was, 
 besides, exceedingly passionate, and had 
 more than once got into trouble from 
 having used hasty and unguarded expres- 
 sions. Nay, he had once been prosecuted 
 in the Court of Session, and damages had 
 been obtained to a considerable amount, 
 by one of' his servants, or rather slaves, 
 whom he had beat most unmercifully. In 
 attending a Perth market, he had occasion 
 to ride homewards, after dark, with a 
 brother proprietor, who bad lately bought 
 an estate in his neighborhood. This pro- 
 prietor could not boast a Celtic name or 
 origin. He was plain Mr. Monipenny, 
 from the town of Kirkaldy, in Fife. They 
 had both been drinking; durins; the course 
 of the day, and were, therefore, more lia- 
 ble to get into some dispute or quarrel. 
 M'Wharry began by deprecating Mr. Mo- 
 nipenny's horse, whose character the mas- 
 ter supported with some warmth ; so, to 
 settle the matter, they both set oiF at the 
 gallop, and the fire flashed from the horses' 
 heels as they passed through Dunkeld. 
 Unfortunately for Laird M'Wharry, how- 
 ever, about a mile beyond the above town, 
 the saddle-girth gave way, and he came to 
 ihe ground head foremost. He was dead 
 when Mr. Monipenny came up with him. 
 He had suffered a concussion of the brain ; 
 
 VOL. II 56 
 
 and, notwithstanding that medical aid was 
 immediately obtained from Dunkeld, no- 
 thing could be done. 
 
 Poor Helen M'Pherson really mourned 
 his fate ; for though she had no love for 
 him, she had brought herself to think that 
 it was her duty to fulfil her promise. But 
 where was he whom her young heart held 
 in its core .'' No one knew — no one could 
 tell. Helen had inwardly resolved to 
 live single on his account, even if no fur- 
 ther accounts were received of William 
 M'Pherson. But her father, in the mean- 
 time, died of a fever ; and her mother was 
 compelled to remove from the farm to the 
 village of Dunkeld, where, in order to 
 support herself and her lovely daughter, 
 she set up a little shop with a small sum 
 which her husband and she had saved, and 
 was highly respected by all who knew her. 
 In the meantime, the parish schoolmaster, 
 an excise officer, and a wealthy sheep-far- 
 mer, all solicited Helen's hand ; but she 
 lent a deaf ear to all these offers, still 
 thinking, and speaking, and dreaming, 
 about her William. 
 
 One day, when she was standing at the 
 shop door, she observed a crowd gathered 
 about a horse and gig, out of which a per- 
 son had just been thrown, and was taken 
 up, as was feared, lifeless. Helen, from 
 motives of humanity, rushed into the crowd 
 to make inquiries, and saw the person car- 
 ried into an adjoining apothecary's shop ; 
 there he was immediately bled, and, to the 
 infinite satisfaction of all, had begun to 
 recover. The faci turned out to be, that 
 he had been stunned by the fall on his 
 head, but no concussion or fracture had 
 taken place. The gentleman, she learned, 
 had been put to bed, but was mighty un- 
 ruly, as he insisted upon pursuing his 
 journey that very evening into the High- 
 lands ; and a post-chaise, with two horses, 
 and a steady driver, had been brought to 
 the apothecary's door, and the traveller 
 was passing into it with his head and arm 
 tied up, when all at once Helen uttered a 
 scream, and stood trembling betwixt him 
 
290 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 and the conveyance. It was her own 
 William, returned from sea — to which he 
 had again fled — making all despatch to 
 reach Denhead, as he had learned, on his 
 way towards the Highlands, the fate that 
 had overtaken the bridegroom, Laird 
 M'Wharry. Now, reader, you and 1 part 
 — I can do no more for you ; for, if you 
 cannot far better conceive, than I can de- 
 scribe what followed, you can be no reader 
 of mine — you will never have perused the 
 story at all. William was now com- 
 fortably circumstanced, pensioned, and 
 
 dismissed the service ; and the last time I 
 had a week's fishieg at Amalrie, 1 spent 
 my evenings and nights under his roof. 
 He is now, like myself, a gi-andfather ; 
 and Helen, though not quite so young as 
 she was some thirty or forty years ago, is 
 still in my mind a perfect beauty, and has 
 blessed her husband, during a pretty long 
 life, with all that kind husbands can expect 
 or obtain by marriage. She has made 
 him a happy father, and a fond, foolish, 
 indulgent grandpapa. 
 
 DUU A DEN; 
 
 OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST. 
 
 I TOOK my way, a few days ago, 'fishing-rod 
 in hand, from Cupar in Fife, by Dura 
 Den, up towards the healthy and seques- 
 tered village of Ceres. Dura Den was 
 once romantic and secluded. Its brawl- 
 ing stream, which empties the waters of 
 the upper bason into the Eden, leapt and 
 tumbled over igneous, and penetrated its 
 way through aqueous formations, till it 
 mingled into rejoicing union with the love- 
 ly Eden immediately under the old towers 
 of Spottiswood, and the fine Gothic church 
 of Dairsie. This deep and beautifully 
 winding ravine was covered from rock to 
 rock, on each successively sunny side, by 
 trees of various name and leaf, from the 
 scented sloe and hawthorn up to the hazel, 
 the birch, and the oak. It was a perfect 
 aviary during the spring months. A few 
 wild deer browsed amidst recesses and 
 various love-smitten maids and men re- 
 paired to this retreat, to talk of many 
 things which were only interesting to them- 
 flelves. The soft projecting sandstone 
 
 rocks had been water-run into caves and 
 recesses ; and in some of these, report 
 had fixed the residence, for a night at least, 
 of the famous Balfour of Burley, after the 
 affair of Magnus Muir.* It is not, how- 
 ever, to this, but to a more recent occur- 
 rence, that I am now about to solicit your 
 attention, after, however, premising the 
 change which has now been wrought upon 
 this once rural, secluded, romantic, lovely 
 spot. At the very entrance, there stands 
 a bone mill, grinding, with grating activity 
 and horrible crunch, into powder the 
 minsiled bones of man and beast. You 
 
 O 
 
 have scarcely escaped from the horrible 
 jarring sound of the modern ogre, than 
 you come full plump upon a spinning-mill, 
 with as many windows as there are days in 
 the year. There it stands bestriding the 
 valley like a colossus, and commanding all 
 
 * A sword has lately been discovered in one of 
 the caves, rusted and broken — probably once the 
 1 sword of Burley !— 19th Oct. 1839. 
 
DURA DEN. 
 
 291 
 
 tlie collected energies of the once pure and 
 solitary stream. Bless me ! how it thun- 
 ders : the very rocks seem to shake under 
 the whirl of the tremendous machinery ; 
 whilst at every open window out flics in 
 clouds the imprisoned dust and stour. 
 A single door opens, and the sound mad- 
 dens on your ear into a screwing torture. 
 It shuts again. You are greatly relieved 
 by the compressed and imprisoned horror. 
 A little further up this once delighted den, 
 a pillar of smoke shoots out on the eye. 
 like an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. This 
 is an evid3nce that (as in the formation of 
 this globe) fire has been called upon to 
 assist water. Again and again, another 
 and another hulking dirty erection fixes its 
 hideous trail in the lovely localities, till 
 the landscape still onwards opens upon 
 green fields, all covered and whitened 
 over, not with daisies, but with ijaru, which 
 has just been removed from the vitriolic 
 vat. I had essayed here and there to fish, 
 but had not even a nibble. A little fac- 
 tory urchin, who saw my mistake, imme- 
 diately accosted me with — 
 
 " Ye needna fish here about, sir, for the 
 fish are a' dead." 
 
 " What has deaded them," said I. 
 
 " Oh ! I dinna ken, except mayb^ it is 
 the vitriol — they dinna tak wi' the vitriol 
 ava." 
 
 " No wonder," thought I. " I suspect 
 neither you nor 1 would tak we el with such 
 a beverage." So I at once rolled in my 
 line, put up my rod, and was on the eve of 
 returning, somewhat disappointed, from ray 
 forenoon's ramble, Avhen my attention was 
 attracted by an old though fresh lopi^Qg 
 man in his '' cruda viridisque se^ec^iZo^," 
 who was sitting on a bench in tie sunshine, 
 betwixt the door and the w^dow of one of 
 those very neat and, <5leanly cottages, 
 which have been elected for the conve- 
 nience and accoivodation of the mill spin- 
 ners, and wh'-ti, fi'om the name of the 
 spirited pr<?prietor, has been called" Yool- 
 
 field." 
 
 ^^ James," said the old man ; " come 
 
 here, James, and tell me what's that ye 
 waur saying to the gentlemen." 
 
 " Ou, I was only tellinghini, there waur 
 nae trouts except stane anes* here." 
 
 in the meantime, I had approached the 
 old man's seat, and thinking that he mo- 
 tioned me to be seated, I at once took my 
 place, as if I had been an old acquaintance, 
 by his side. It turned out that he was 
 the grandfather of this urchin, who, in a 
 few minutes, reappeared with a face of 
 o-reat comfort and visiorous health : " causa 
 enif in aperto " — he had dined. 
 
 " Ye'll be a stranger here aboots, I mak 
 nae doubt .^" said the old man. 
 
 I replied that 1 had been so for some- 
 time past ; that I had stopped, on my way 
 north, a day in Cupar, in order to revisit 
 this romantic retreat ; but that it was now 
 sadly changed, and I had not the heart to 
 pursue my walk any further. I miss, ad- 
 ded I, everything which 1 expected to see ; 
 the solitude, the green banks, the trees, 
 the pure waters, the yellow trouts, the all 
 of innocence and nature by which this den 
 was marked, ere these vile spinning -jennies 
 had entered, with noise, confusion, and de- 
 filement in their train. 
 
 " And so," said the aged Nestor, " ye 
 are up in arms against the late erections, 
 because ye canna get an hour or twa's 
 fishing, nor pursue your own fancies about 
 solitude, and innocence, and tiat ! I will 
 tell ye, my good sir — for y«re but a bairn 
 in comparison wi' me — that had ye experi- 
 enced what 1 hae experienced, ye wad hae 
 ble&sed the day wtich converted this soli- 
 tary and u&ele-s^ den into a source of com- 
 fortable li»mg to hundreds of families, who 
 mi2;ht otherwise be starving at home, or 
 banished from all that they hold dear, into 
 a foreign land." 
 
 " Grandfather," hereupon said a fine 
 rosy girl about fourteen, " dinner's ready ; 
 will ye come in, or will I bring it out to 
 you." 
 
 * Vide recent dujcoveries of extinct species of 
 fish found in ihis den. " File Illustrated." — 
 Glasgow, Joseph Swan. 
 
292 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " I think," said the ancient patriarch, 
 " I'll just rest whar I am ; it's a bonny 
 sunny day, and the den is a' loun and shel- 
 tered ; just bring out the broth and the 
 wee bit Irish stew here, and maybe this 
 gentlemen, now tired wi' nae fishing, will 
 no scorn to tak a spoonfu' and a bit alang 
 side o' a puir auld body." 
 
 I immediately assured my kind best 
 that I had provisions in my basket, which 
 I soon disengaged, together wi+h a flask 
 containing a sufficiency of old Nantz. To 
 it, therefore, we set, exchanging viands ; 
 I partaking of the excellent and savoury 
 stew, and he of a wee drap, only a very 
 wee drap o' the brandy. Like Sir Walter 
 Scott's minstrel, the soul of the old yet 
 vigorous Trojan waxed strong within him ; 
 and after having duly returned thanks to 
 the Giver of all Good, he drew me close 
 to his elbow, and proceeded thus : — " In- 
 deed, sir, I'm now considerably upwards 
 of eighty years — the period at which the 
 psalmist says the strength of man is but 
 grief and labor ; but I hae nae found it 
 sae, for all my griefs and labors were con- 
 fined to the earlier part of my life, and no 
 to the latter day — his name be praised for 
 thg same.'^ I instinctively answered 
 " Amen," and partly encouraged by this, 
 and partly by an additional puU at the 
 brandy fi^sk, the old man pursued his ego- 
 tism. , 
 
 " Well, ye se«, ye are against spinning- 
 jennies and large t«anufactures, ye say ; 
 but they are the frien<^s o' the poor, sir — 
 the blessed supporters o.f thousands and 
 millions in these lands.* Y<au shall hear •, 
 for, as you seem to have time on your 
 hands, I will, for your father's sake, (T had 
 made him acquainted with my descent 
 from a worthy clergyman in the north), 
 unfold to you my whole history, and that 
 of my children up to this hour : — 
 
 '* My name, sir, is Donald Sutherland. 
 I belong originally to the county of that 
 name ; and I was bred a farmer on the 
 
 * Very ditferent this deliverance Irom that of 
 Mrs. TroUope in her " Factory Boy," 
 
 estates of the Duchess of Sutherland. 
 But there was neither Duke nor Duchess 
 then, oh dear !" — (Hereupon the old man 
 absolutely cried ; having, however, check- 
 ed himself, by observing that he was an 
 old fool — he again proceeded :) — " I had, 
 as I said, a small sheep-farm, of about one 
 thousand acres, in the western district of 
 that county. I see, sir, you are surprised 
 at my saying small ; but, sir, when land is 
 let at a shilling an acre, as it was in my 
 day, such a farm is but small — a thousand 
 shillings, ye ken, is just fifty pounds o' 
 yearly rent ; and that was my rent at Ed- 
 derachillsy near by Loch Assynt. I am 
 now, as ye see, an auld man and a gray ; 
 but I was ance young, and stout, and fool- 
 ish, too, nae doobt. I thought naething 
 wad war me, sae I just married whan I was 
 a young inexperienced callan about nine- 
 teen ; and, having got a brother of ray 
 puir father's to be security (ye see my puir 
 father was only a hind on the estate o' 
 Sutherland, and had neither money nor 
 credit), I took my dear Jenny M'Roy 
 home to no that ill a bigging — wi' a hantel 
 o' blankets, a peat-fire, a herd callan, and 
 twa as canny and sensible dogs as ever 
 followed a herd or turned a hirsel. Aweel, 
 ye ken, Helen and me war very happy, for 
 we loved each other dearly ; we had been 
 acquainted frae the time we could climb a 
 brae or eat a cranberry ; and things went 
 on no that ill ava. We had twa bairns in 
 the course o' twal years, a lassie and a 
 fine lad, wha was drowned, as ye shall 
 hear ; but, oh, my heart is sair yet whan 
 I think o't. It was one awful night in 
 the month of January. A vessel had 
 stranded in Loch Assynt. The men were 
 seen, throu^^ii^ a stormy moonshine, hang- 
 ing to the topn^st, which, however, went 
 from side to sidb, ^ith a fearful swing. 
 At every turn or jerk another and another 
 human being was plungeH juto the roaring 
 foam. My son Archibald, my shepherd, 
 and I, pushed from the shore in a fishino- 
 boat, which was lying high and dry— we 
 heard the fearful screams of perishing men 
 
DURA DEN. 
 
 298 
 
 — WG rowed off at all hazards, but had not 
 neared the vessel when our boat fairly 
 swamped. We were still, however, within 
 wadicg depth, and with difficulty regained 
 our feet and the boat. We again pushed 
 hard from land, and at last came under 
 the lee of the wreck. My son was young, 
 active, and daring ; and, in order to as- 
 certain how matters were, or what re- 
 mained of the deck, he caught a rope, and 
 leapt on board. In an instant, a young 
 man, a passenger^ with his wife and child. 
 Were slung, as it were, miraculously, on 
 board our little boat, line waves went up 
 in spouting foam betwiiJt the wreck and 
 the boat, and then subsiding, heaved us 
 with a tremendous crash against the side 
 of the vessel ; and 1 remember no more, 
 till 1 awoke to misery, in a kelp hut by 
 the sea-shore. 1 found that my son, with 
 the woman and child, had perished ; but 
 that the husband, my shepherd, and my- 
 self, had been cast ashore, and with diffi- 
 culty resuscitated. My grief and his mo- 
 ther's o-rief Were loud and severe. But 
 ' what cannot be cured must be endured.' 
 Tlie stranger was a native of Fife, who 
 had been to America on a mercantile spe- 
 culation, and having married at New 
 York, and become a father, was on his 
 way towards Kirkaldy, his native place, 
 when this dreadful accident took place. 
 He had lost all his effacts, and some mo- 
 ney in the wreck, and was content to take 
 part of my humble dwelling for a season. 
 In the meantime, my lease expired, and 
 another proprietor had arisen, who knew 
 not Donald Sutherland. The rent offered 
 by my next and more wealthy neighbor, 
 was far above what I would think of pro- 
 mising, so 1 behoved to leave sweet Ed- 
 derachills, with all its heath, and moss, 
 and muir, for a sea-shore appointment in 
 the manufacturing of kelp from sea weed 
 — at that time a very flourishing employ- 
 ment in the West Highlands in particular. 
 The stranorer about this time took his de- 
 parture, but not without many promises 
 of returning again to ^isit the grave of his 
 
 wife and child, and to renew his acquaint- 
 ance with my wife, my daughter, and my- 
 self. For a time the kelp concern did 
 pretty well ; we had good and regular 
 payment for the article, and an increasing 
 demand ; and We contrived to live at least 
 as comfortably as we had done as sheep- 
 farmers. But man is always finding out 
 inventions — a method was devised of dis- 
 pensing-— by means of a chemical discovery 
 — without kelp entirely ; and we were 
 suddenly and entirely ruined. It was at 
 this period that I, in a manner, cursed^ 
 like you, the spirit of discovery and inven- 
 tion. I was disgusted by the change 
 which the progress of science had made, 
 and I did not know how to turn myself for 
 a bare subsistence. In this situation of 
 affairs, my daitghter Nelly within there 
 (pointing to the door) was courted by a 
 neighboring sheep-farmer's son, of a some- 
 what disreputable character, but of consi- 
 derable reputed wealth. This was a sad 
 trial to us all ; for, though the marriage 
 might have benefited us somewhat in a 
 Worldly point of view, we did not like to 
 see our blooming and virtuotis child sa- 
 crificed, it might be, to the momentary 
 feelings of a known deceiver. Nelly could 
 not bear the thoughts of such a union ; 
 and one night she told her lover as much. 
 In consequence of this unfortunate affair, 
 we were very soon after turned out of 
 house and hold — the old farmer having 
 contracted with the proprietor for the huts 
 and steadings which had oQce been peo- 
 pled with busy and prosperous hands, but 
 which now were nearly empty. Baser 
 proposals than before were made by the 
 degraded and vindictive young man ; and 
 we set off, one moonlight night, across the 
 hills, for the town of Dornoch. We were 
 three wanderers in the wilderness — my 
 wife Helen, my daughter Nelly, and my- 
 self. I was still comparatively strong, and 
 was determined to work, but could find no 
 employment. For days we slept (for the 
 weather was fine) on the heath, and lived 
 on what little of our means which yet re- 
 
294 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 niained. J was resolved, come what might, 
 that 1 would not beg. My wife and daugh' 
 ter bore up amazingly ; for we trusted 
 that our God — the God of the hills as well 
 as of the valleys — of the poor and the out- 
 cast as well as of the rich and provided — 
 would not forget us. I found temporary 
 work, at last, in a stone quarry, and occu- 
 pied a hut close upon the sea shore. This, 
 to us all, was luxury ; for it was indepen- 
 dence. Contentment kltchened labor, 
 and we slept soundly in our poverty and 
 innocence. But this, I saw, could not 
 long continue ; my strength was not equal 
 to this severe labor, to which I was unac- 
 customed; so I persuaded, not without 
 difficulty, my wife and daughter to accom- 
 pany me to Canada, to which the Coun- 
 tess of Sutherland was then offering a free 
 passage from Cromarty Frith, in the good 
 ship Aurora. I should, however, have 
 mentioned that, whilst residing at Dornoch, 
 I had observed the son of a neighboring 
 propiistor — a somewhat smart-looking 
 gentleman — frequently passing our door, 
 and sometimes conversing with my wife 
 and dauo-hter: but I took no notice of the 
 affair, as I felt secure in the virtue and 
 prudonce of both parties. No proposals, 
 honorable or otherwise, were made to my 
 daughter, and I conceived the matter to 
 be at an end. On the day of the ship's 
 sailing, we were all on the quay, and ready 
 to embark. My wife and 1 had entered 
 the boat, and were waiting for my daugh- 
 ter, who had been sent by us on a message 
 to a shop. She did not return in time for 
 the boat in which we were conveyed to 
 the Aurora ; but we were told by the sail- 
 ors that she would probably arrive in the 
 next. One boat, however, arrived, but 
 our dear Nelly was not in it ; another 
 came, but with it no daughter. Mean- 
 time the ship was under sail, and the cap- 
 tain said he would not lose the favorable 
 breeze for all the gii-ls in Scotland. My 
 dear wife was inconsolable, and I petition- 
 ed hard to be let out, even on one of the 
 western isles; but the weather was ex- 
 
 ceedingly stormy, and we kept as far as 
 possible from land. ' God,' said I to my 
 grieving partner, ' will protect Nelly ; for 
 she is good and virtuous. God can be 
 father and mother, and more than all that, 
 to those who fear and obey him.' We 
 landed at Quebec, and maintained our- 
 selves for some time — I acting as a kind 
 of shore-porter, and my wife assisting in 
 assorting furs in a great warehouse. But 
 our means were but small ; so we bethought 
 us of removing more inland. So we ar- 
 rived ultimately at Montreal, where I had 
 the good fortune to meet with a distant 
 relation in pretty good circumstances. 
 He had Ions; been ensfa^ed in a mercantile 
 house, and had now obtained a consider- 
 able and a profitable share in it. He im- 
 mediately found employment for me as a 
 warehouse-servant, whilst my wife washed 
 and dressed for himself and a few friends. 
 Year after year passed by, and many a 
 letter did we write to Edderachills and 
 Dornoch ; but we received no answer. 
 At last, it pleased God to remove my dear 
 Helen by death ; and my friend having 
 resolved to remove to Kirkaldy, his native 
 place, I took shipping with him in the ship 
 St. John, and we arrived off the Land's 
 End in safety. But it came on to blow 
 dreadfully from the north and the east, as 
 we rounded the island ; and, one dark 
 night in the month of November, we struck 
 upon a rock in the neighborhood of Ely. 
 The ship fired signals of distress, and a 
 boat came out, which saved the passengers 
 and crew ; but the ship and cargo were 
 lost. What was my surprise, upon arriv- 
 ing at the inn, to find, in the person of 
 one of the boatmen, the shipwrecked 
 stranger, Sam Rogers, who had lodged so 
 long with us at Edderachills. He insisted 
 upon my immediately repairing to his 
 cabin, as he termed it, on the shore, with 
 the view of introducing me to his wife and 
 a large family of children. 
 
 " ' Have you ever heard,' continued he, 
 after we were seated, ' anything of your 
 daughter Nelly P 
 
DURA DEN. 
 
 295 
 
 *' ^ Not a word,' said I, eagerl}''. ' Have 
 you ?' 
 
 " ' Would you know Iier ?' contmucd he, 
 ' if you were again to see her ?' 
 
 " ' Know her,' said I ; 'to be sure I 
 would — Iier imaire is ever before me. I 
 see her, at this moment, as plainly as if 
 she were still alive. Oh ! what — horrible ! 
 — stand off! — stand off! Do these old 
 eyes deceive me, or art thou indeed my 
 own darling, lost child ?' said 1 ; whilst 
 Nelly — the real flesh and blood — clasped 
 me to her arms and burst into a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 " ' My father ! — my father !' she ex- 
 claioied, whilst the young ones gathered 
 around us in stupid amazement ; and my 
 son-in-law, Sam Rogers, rubbed his hands 
 and flapped his arms in perfect delight. 
 It was indeed my dear Nelly, in the per- 
 son of Helen Rogers, the still handsome 
 mother of seven children. 
 
 " But Helen, I say — Helen, set down 
 the bairn a wee bit, and tell this honest 
 gentleman the Dornoch story, ye ken. 
 
 " ' Hout,' said Flelen, ' I hae nae time, 
 foither, to enter into a' the outs an' ins o' 
 thae lang-syne talcs ; besides, I see Sam 
 waving me up to the mill — I'm wanted, 
 faither, and ye maun look after the bairn 
 till I come back again.' " 
 
 Being; foiled in his wish to set his daugh- 
 tor's tongue a-going to the tune of her 
 own adventures, the old man placed the 
 child on the greensward in front of the 
 cottage, and, after once more paying his 
 respects to my brandy flask, proceeded as 
 follows : — 
 
 '' Weel, the lassie disna like to hear me 
 tell the story ; 1 ken, she aye blushes at 
 bits o"t ; but now that she's awa, I may 
 just as weel finish by lettiufj ye know that 
 the scamp wha had seen, and fallen in love, 
 as he called it, with her at Dornoch, had 
 watched her down to the beach, and having 
 hired some accomplice in the person of 
 one of the sailors, had her misdirected in 
 the first place, and lifted off her feet in 
 the second, and placed beside the well- 
 
 known gentleman in a post-chaise, which 
 drove off immediately in an inland direc- 
 tion. In vain were all her strufrffles and 
 
 CO 
 
 entreaties. The young blackguard imme- 
 diately proceeded to inform her that her 
 struggles and her shouts were of no avail ; 
 that he could not promise her marriage, 
 as he was already engaged to please his 
 mother ; but he would give her love in 
 abundance, and a cottage residence, which 
 he had provided for her on his father's 
 property, at no great distance. It was in 
 vain for her to resist ; but she had resolved 
 rather to die than to yield to his wishes ; 
 so, when they had arrived at the centre of 
 an extensive plantation, he caused her to 
 alight, and dismissing, as it was now nearly 
 dark, the chaise and driver, proceeded to 
 conduct her, as he said, on foot, to the 
 cottage which he had provided. He half 
 dragged her a few paces from the road, or 
 rather track through the wood, and un- 
 veiling all at once the fiend within him, 
 proceeded to open and undisguised vio- 
 lence. But sir," said the old man, with 
 emphasis, '' he thought himself alone, but 
 he was not alone— God saw him, and had 
 marked his proceedings ; and God sent a 
 deliverer, in the person of him owre by 
 yonder (pointing to the mills). God sent 
 Sam Rogers, with a guid oak plank, to 
 free the captive, and make the captor flee 
 for his life : in short, sir — for I fear I have 
 tired ye wi' my lang-winded story — Sam, 
 by the mercy of God, had just landed at 
 Dornoch as we sailed from it ; and being 
 on his way to Edderachills for the very 
 purpose of asking my Nelly in marriage, 
 he had pushed on, meaning to travel all 
 night across the country, when the provi- 
 dential occurrence took place. Weel, we 
 were now to Ely, where we remained for 
 a time — old grannie, that is, myself, my 
 son, and his family ; but times became 
 tight there, and the family kept still in- 
 creasing ; so, at last, we got acquainted 
 with the worthy gentleman, Mr. Yool, to 
 whom all these great works and these neat 
 cottages belong, and he brought us uf 
 
296 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 here, and set us down comfortably, where, 
 not only my son in-law, but every wean, 
 male and female, above seven years of age, 
 can earn its own clothes and subsistence. 
 We are now, sir, in comparative affluence ; 
 and all this, sir, is owing to these improve- 
 ments in machinery and in chemistry, 
 which, at one time, drove me from my 
 native land. ^ Second thoughts, they 
 SAY, ARE BEST ;' at Icast so it has been 
 with me, as I sit here in my old age in 
 comparative ease and comfort, and see my 
 grandchildren growing up in domestic 
 
 affection and public usefulness around me. 
 Here is no scattering of the youno" family 
 — one going east and one west, never to 
 meet again ; but here, every ni^ht, all 
 congregate around one hearth^ whilst a 
 psalm is sung, a chapter is read, and a 
 prayer said by grannie himsel !" 
 
 I shall never regret the loss of my old 
 and favorite amusement, whilst I can re- 
 collect this old man's narrative, and the 
 many happy and comfortable homes which 
 now occupy the once solitary homes of 
 Dura Den. 
 
 -^mO>» 
 
 THE RETURNED LETTER. 
 
 We all know that great endings have often 
 had but small beginnings ; that most seri- 
 ous consequences have often arisen from 
 very trifling incidents. This, we say, we 
 all know. Yet there may be some who 
 would deny the fact. If there be, let them 
 read the following account of a particular 
 passage in the lif^ of Mr . John Manders- 
 ton, and let them, at the same time, take 
 warning by it : — 
 
 Mr John Manderston, who was an iron- 
 monger to business, sat him down one day, 
 at the period to which our story refers, to 
 indite a letter to a certain Mr. David 
 Morrison ; the said David Morrison beinij 
 then resident in the city of Glasgow. The 
 purpose of this letter, which we shall short 
 ly place before the reader, was to remind 
 Mr. David Morrison of an old debt due 
 to the writer, and demanding payment 
 thereof. These were the terms of the 
 document in question : — 
 
 " Heatherbraes, 2ith August, 1813. 
 " Mr. David Mohrison-, 
 
 " Sir, — Your old dett which you o me, 
 is now long standing for about seven years ; 
 
 and as you are now, I here, in good cir- 
 cumstances, I houpe you will immedtately 
 remit me the same, which is £9 : 14 : 4^., 
 for various artikles furnished you in my 
 line. 
 
 " I am, Sir, 
 
 " Your obed. Serv., 
 
 " John Manderston." 
 
 Having duly folded, sealed, and ad- 
 dressed this letter, John took it to the 
 post office, and with his own hands, popped 
 it into the slip. This done, John patient- 
 ly awaited the result. His claim on IMr. 
 David Morrison, we need hardly say, was 
 a just one, and had, indeed, been long 
 owing, as set forth in the letter of demand, 
 John, therefore, reasonably expected that 
 his application would produce something 
 — and, cerles, it did. 
 
 On the third day after ]Mr. ^fanderston 
 had written and dispatched the letter in 
 question, he was very much surprised, and 
 very much pleased, to be presented by the 
 postman with a very promising-looking 
 packet, on which was a charge of one shil- 
 ling and fourpence halfpenny of postage. 
 
 kfc: 
 
THE RETURNED LETTER. 
 
 297 
 
 This charge not doubting that the packet 
 spoken of contained a remittance from his 
 old debtor, Morrison, Mr. Manderston 
 cheerfully paid. 
 
 " One shilling and fourpence ha'penny, 
 Archy !" he said, addressing the postman 
 in a chuckling voice, and with a smiling 
 countenance* " I'll pay you the money, 
 my man !" and he drew out the drawer of 
 his till, with a jerk of unusual promptitude 
 and readiness, paid the postage and re- 
 tired to his little desk, to open, and feast 
 on the contents of his packet. 
 
 Mr. Manderston, however, went to work 
 cautiously and deliberately in this matter, 
 as if to prolong the enjoyment of pleasing 
 anticipation. He first broke one seal, and 
 then another — for the packet was carefully 
 secured — and then slowly unfolded the 
 envelope — an operation which he fully 
 expected would disclose to his longing 
 eyes the impressive appearance of a 
 bank-note of respectable amount. But 
 what was his surprise and disappointment 
 to find that the envelope, which he had 
 just unfolded, enclosed only a letter ! This 
 letter, however, John immediately opened, 
 without looking at the superscription, and 
 read — 
 
 " Sir, — Your old dett which you o me 
 is now long standing — for about seven 
 years, and'' — Here John brought up all 
 at once. Paused. A sudd?n light had 
 broke in upon him. He discovered that 
 he was readiug his own letter — the identi- 
 cal letter he had sent, three days before, 
 to his dabtor Morrison. 
 
 " What could this mean ? No remit- 
 tance ; but in place of that, his own letter 
 back. Most extraoi-dinary I Mr. Man 
 derston now turned his attention to the 
 outside of the letter, and there discovered 
 the word refused written in red ink in a 
 scrawling hand. 
 
 " x-\h, refused !" he exclaimed, in atone 
 of bitter indignation. " The scoundrel. 
 To swindle me out of my money, and now 
 to refuse my letter ; and to subject me, 
 
 moreover, to a double postage." It was 
 a very provoking case ; and deep was the 
 resentment, fierce the ire of Mr. Manders- 
 ton, as he contemplatedj in all its bearings, 
 the ungrateful, ungracious proceeding. 
 But pea<3e-loving and rest-loving man as 
 John was, he determined to bestir himself 
 on the present occasion, and not to allow 
 the slight put upon him by his debtor 
 Morrison, to go unresented. John deter- 
 mined on revenge ; but in what shape, of 
 what description should it be .'' This was 
 a question ; for the debtor was a discharged 
 bankrupt, and, moreover, a wily rogue, so 
 there was no safety in dealing with him 
 " according to law ;" that is, in prosecu- 
 ting. Such a proceeding might only make 
 bad worse, by hooking John in for the ex- 
 penses, without effecting the recovery of a 
 penny of the principal, it might. Then 
 what was to be done } Mr. Manderston 
 was a good deal at a loss. At length 
 however, a bright idea struck him ; and 
 John chuckled over it, for there was some 
 mischievous humor in it ; at least so there 
 appeared to be to John himself, who, we 
 need hardly say, was not very bright either 
 in repartie or retaliation, or indeed in any- 
 thing else. The idea alluded to, was to 
 send his letter back again to Morrison un- 
 der a cover, which should also enclose the 
 envelope in which it came to himself, and 
 thus to subject his debtor in triple post- 
 age. 
 
 No sooner conceived than executed. 
 Delighted with the ingenuity of the con- 
 trivance, Mr. Manderston immediately 
 made up the cunning packet, addressed it, 
 disguising his hand as much as he could, 
 and dispatched it. 
 
 For a whole week after, jNIr. Manders- 
 ton enjoyed, undisturbed, the pleasing no- 
 tion that he had done his correspondent ; 
 for, on this he presumed after the second 
 day, seeing that there was no return in that 
 time. He liad no doubt, therefore, that 
 Morrison had bitten. 
 
 For a whole week, then, we say, Mr. 
 Manderston enjoyed, undisturbed, all the 
 
298 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 felicity which this circumstance was capa- 
 ble of affording. At the end of that time, 
 however, an event occurred which showed, 
 that the thing had not gone off either quite 
 so quietly or so satisfactorily as John had 
 fondly imagined. A thickish letter, post- 
 age free, however, was put into Mr. Man- 
 derston's hand by the postman. He won- 
 dered where it could be from, and what it 
 could be about, and still more did he 
 wonder when ho read on the back, in large 
 plain print, the words—" On His Majesty's 
 service." An order for ironmongery, 
 thouf>-ht Mr. Manderston, for some bar- 
 racks or other. Thus thinking John broke, 
 the large official seal with which the 
 lett:r was secured, and found several docu- 
 ments enclosed. He took out one, open- 
 ed it, and read — 
 
 <' Sir, — Your old dett which you owe 
 me is now long standing — for about seven 
 years, and" Here, as on a former oc- 
 casion, Mr. Mandertson stopped short, 
 looked a little pale, and got a little con- 
 fused. What could this mean. His letter 
 again. It was rather alarming ; it was so, 
 from its appearing under such circum- 
 stances, under cover of an official, a go- 
 vernment envelope. Rather serious. 
 
 There was an official letter also, inside. 
 Mr. Manderston took it up, opened it, 
 and found it to be to the following ef- 
 fect : — 
 
 " Sir, — The enclosed letters having been 
 refused by the person to whom they are ad- 
 dressed. 1 have to request that you make 
 immediate payment of the several postages, 
 on the letters in question, amounting in 
 all to 3s. 4jd., to the postmaster of your 
 place, otherwise legal proceedings will be 
 forthwith entered into against you for re- 
 covery of the same. 
 
 " I am, sir, &c." 
 
 Mr. Manderston was struck dumb ; at 
 least it would have been seen that he was 
 so, had anybody been present ; but there 
 
 being none, he had no occasion to speak. 
 It was some moments too before he could 
 even think on the very odd affair thus so 
 unexpectedly thrust upon him ; that is, 
 think of it in any useful or connected way. 
 At length, however, he began to take a 
 regular and deliberate view of the matter 
 in all its bearings, and finally emerged 
 from the brown study into which it bad 
 thrown him with a clear conviction that he 
 was ill used in the matter : that Morrison 
 had behaved villanously ; and that he had 
 no right to pay the 3s. 4^d., demanded, 
 and that he would not pay it, he firmly re- 
 solved. 
 
 Full at once of this determination, and 
 of the gross injustice attempted to be done 
 him, Mr. Manderston immediately took 
 pen in hand, and commenced inditing a 
 memorial to the postmaster at Edinburgh, 
 settino; forth in the followino; terms, the 
 hardship of his case, together with an ex- 
 pression of the resolution above alluded to ; 
 that is, the resolution not to pay. 
 
 " Sir," — began this pithy document — 
 " I have receive yours, in which you de- 
 mand from me three shillins and forpence 
 hapeny for postig for a leter I sent to Air. 
 Morrison, Glasgow, who has beenowin me 
 a det of long standing — for seven years — 
 demanding the payment of my just and 
 laful det ; and he refused it, because he 
 wishes to avoid payment of his laful dets, 
 although justly owin, with interest and ex- 
 penses. I will not, therefore, pay the 
 money you demand, as I think it unjust 
 and unreasonable that I should be obliged 
 to pay for askin my on, which is due me, 
 as I have said, by Morrison, which got 
 value in ironmongery and other guds, as I 
 can well prove by my buks. 
 
 " I am, sir, &c." 
 
 " P.S. I am determine not to pay the 
 3s. 4^d., you must go to Morrison for it, 
 which is bound to pay it." 
 
 Having folded and sealed this concise, 
 clear, and felicitously expressed memorial 
 
THE RETURNED LETTER. 
 
 299 
 
 and remonstrance, Mr. Manderston ad- 
 dressed it " To the Postmaster of the city 
 of Edinburgh ;" and dispatched it to its 
 destination, in full assurance that he should 
 he should hear no more of it. In this 
 opinion, three days of entire silence con- 
 firmed him ; but the fourth brought an 
 awakener ; it came in the shape of a letter 
 — a sufficiently polite one, however — from 
 the Post-Office at Edinburgh, acknowledg- 
 ing receipt of his epistle, but refusing to 
 forego the claim of 3s. 4^d. 
 
 *' The letters to which your communi- 
 cation alludes," said this official docu- 
 ment, " having been refused by the party 
 to whom they were addressed, you, as the 
 writer thereof, are liable in the postage as 
 charged, agreeably to the regulation of this 
 office. You will, therefore, please order 
 immediate payment of the amount, (3s. 
 4^d.) otherwise, I regret to say, the case 
 will be put forthwith into the hands of our 
 solicitor for instant prosecution. 
 
 (Signed) " Secretary." 
 
 The matter was getting serious then ; 
 Mr. Manderston thought it so ; but still 
 his resolution not to pay remained un- 
 shaken. How to proceed next in the bu- 
 siness, however, puzzled him. He had 
 now exhausted all his resources and all 
 his ingenuity, in so far as these were ap- 
 plicable to the affiiir in hand. Mr. Man- 
 derston, in short, was at his wits ends as 
 regarded it. 
 
 In this dilemma he bethought him of 
 applying to his solicitor for advice and 
 assistance. 
 
 Having come to this determination, he 
 took down his hat, put it on, told his boy 
 to keep a sharp look-out on the shop, and 
 proceeded straightway to the house of his 
 legal friend, Mr. Snoddy, carrying with 
 him all the letters and papers relating to 
 the case on which he was about to consult 
 him. 
 
 On beino; ushered into the writino'-room 
 of the man of law — " Be seated, my dear 
 
 sir, be seated," said the latter — perceiv- 
 ing that there was a look of business about 
 his visitor. " Anything to do in my way .?" 
 added Mr. Snoddy, laughingly, and rub- 
 bing his hands with professional glee. 
 "Anything to do in my way, my dear 
 sir .?" 
 
 Mr. Manderston, with a gravity efface 
 which contrasted rather strongly with the 
 smiling countenance of the lawyer, repli- 
 ed, that there was a small matter rec-ard- 
 ing which he wished to consult him ; and 
 forthwith proceeded to state his case, pro- 
 
 ducing, 
 
 at the same time, the various 
 
 documents which its progress had accu- 
 mulated. Having patiently listened to the 
 former, and carefully perused the latter, 
 Mr Snoddy rested his head upon his left 
 hand, and gave himself up for a few se- 
 conds to profound thought. This impos- 
 ing ceremony gone through, he suddenly 
 resumed his natm-al lively manner, and 
 said — 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, I see very plainly 
 what we are to do in this case : we will 
 pay the 3s. 4id." 
 
 " We'll do no such thing," here vehe- 
 mently interposed Mr Manderston. 
 
 " Patience, my good sir — patience," said 
 Mr Snoddy, holding up his hand deprecat- 
 ingly — " till I explain. We will pay the 
 33. 45d. to the Post Office ; because, if 
 we don't, they will enforce it with expenses, 
 they having nothing to do between you 
 and Morrison, but merely to look to the 
 writer of the letter or letters, for the post- 
 age or postages thereof. But, having paid 
 it, we have then good grounds of action 
 against Morrison for recovery of the same, 
 with interest and charges ; don't you see .'' 
 And when we have brought the matter into 
 this shape, leave me alone for sweating 
 him. I'll stir him up with a long pole, I 
 warrant ye." 
 
 To Mr Manderston this view of the 
 case gave great satisfaction ; and had, be- 
 sides, the effect of reconciling him to pay- 
 ino-, at least in the meantime, the 3s. 4 id. 
 demanded by the Post Office. This was 
 
300 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 accordingly done, and proceedings instant- 
 ly entered into against Morrison. 
 
 In about a week after this, Mr. Snoddy 
 called on Mr. Manderston, with a bundle 
 of papers in his hand ; and looking very 
 grave and business like — even before he 
 spoke a word— Mr. Manderston, saw there 
 was something wrong ; he was, therefore, 
 in some measure prepared for the following 
 communication, thus prefaced, from Mr. 
 Snoddy : — 
 
 " That fellow, Morrison," he said, look- 
 ing fierce, " is going to be troublesome, 1 
 doubt. He has employed a man of busi- 
 ness to defend. Here are tWo letters I 
 have had from that person on the subject, 
 in answer to two of mine, of which here 
 are the two copies ; and here, also, is a 
 scroll of another letter which I mean to 
 dispatch this afternoon, in answer to the 
 Glasgow writer's last, and I think it'll be 
 a settler." 
 
 Having said this, Mr. Snoddy placed the 
 various documents he alluded to, sermthn., 
 before his client, and invited him to look 
 over them 
 
 Mr. Manderston, without saying a word, 
 went to his little desk, took therefrom his 
 spectacles, put th:^m leisurely, and solemn- 
 ly on his nose, and commenced a deliber- 
 ate perusal of the different papers submit- 
 ted to him ; Mr. Snoddy standing by, with 
 his hat in his hand — for he was warm — 
 wiping the perspiration from his forhead 
 with his handkerchief, and looking terribly 
 ferocious — this said ferocity being directed 
 a-T-ainst Morrison and his law agent. 
 
 " But you have'nt looked over the scroll 
 of the letter I mean to send to-day, Mr. 
 Snoddy, seeing that the former paused in 
 his labors as if he had finished, without 
 looking at the document in qu'^stion. " It's, 
 I think, a settler, as I said," continued 
 Mr. Snoddy. " It's a complete summing 
 up of the whole case, embodying all that 
 has been or can be said on the subj :*ct, and 
 showing, I imagine, very clearly, that we 
 have the right end of the string. But I'll 
 read it for you, my dear sir ;" and Mr. 
 
 Snoddy, taking up the very formidable 
 scroll, began : — 
 
 " Sir, — The case of Manderston versus 
 Morrison, your client, arose, as you are 
 well aware, from the circumstance of Mr. 
 Manderston addressing a letter to Mor- 
 rison, dated the 24th of August, 1813, 
 craving, as he was well entitled to do, pay- 
 ment of a just and lawful debt due to him 
 by the said Morrison" 
 
 '* Exactly," here interposed Mander- 
 ston, "•just and lawful, and lonc) oiH//(7." 
 
 " Yes, my dear sir, we'll come to that 
 immediately," replied Mr. Snoddy, '' a 
 letter craving, as he was well entitled to 
 do" — continued the latter, resuming his 
 reading — " payment of a just and lawful 
 debt due to him by the said Morrison ; 
 of which letter, the following is a literal 
 copy :— 
 
 " Ileatherbraes, 24th August^ 1813. 
 '' Sir, — Your old debt which you owe 
 me is now lonir standing; — for about seven 
 
 years" 
 
 " Precisely,'' here again interrupted Mr. 
 Manderston. " That's just what I said. 
 The very words to a hair." 
 
 " A copy from your own holograph, my 
 dear sir, which I have in my possession," 
 said Mr. Snoddy. 
 
 " My what .'" inquired ]Mr. Mander- 
 ston. 
 
 " Your holograph, my dear sir," said 
 the writer. 
 
 " What's that .'"rejoined Mr. IMander- 
 ston. 
 
 " Your handwriting — the original letter 
 you wrote Moriison. 
 
 " Ou ay, ay ou !" replied the now en- 
 lightened penman. 
 
 Mr. Snoddy now proceeded, but we 
 need not, to finish the copy of Mander- 
 ston's " holograph." He then passed on 
 to further statements of facts, and finally 
 concluded with three close written pages 
 of aro;ument, filled with law and loaric. It 
 was, in fact, a masterpiece, and well en- 
 
THE RETURNED LETTER. 
 
 301 
 
 titled to the eulogium which the writer had 
 passed on it, when he called it a settler. 
 
 When he had finished 
 
 " Juist sae," said Mr. Manderston. ^'It 
 seems to me a gay steevc, pithy piece o' 
 writin. Ye hit him gaying hard in twa or 
 three places." 
 
 " I think I do !" replied Mr. Snoddy, 
 smiling complacently, and folding up the 
 ^' pithy piece o' writin," with a triumphant 
 flourish. 
 
 " That'll surely bring them to their 
 senses ?" said Mr. Manderston. 
 
 " I should think so !" replied Mr. Snod- 
 dy, with a confident simper. 
 
 " VVeel, despatch't as fast's ye can !" 
 said Mr. Manderston. " Keep the puddin 
 hot, and dinna gie them a moment's re- 
 spite. They'll no fin' John Manderston 
 gio in so ready as they think." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Mr, Snoddy lost no 
 time in firing off the great gun which he 
 had just charged against the enemy. It 
 had not, however, by any means the effect 
 hoped for by that very acute lawyer ; quite 
 the contrary : its only result was to 
 bring back a reply of twice its length, 
 stating facts also, but arriving at very 
 different conclusions, and breathino- in 
 every line the most contemptuous defiance. 
 
 On receipt of this reply, Mr. Snoddy, 
 as in duty bound, waited on his client, 
 and laid it before him, saying, as he did 
 so — " The scoundrel is going to defend." 
 
 Mr. Manderston adjusted his spectacles 
 on his nose, and, with the same gravity 
 and earnestness as before, began to read 
 the reply. 
 
 When he had finished — " What's to be 
 done noo, then, Mr Snoddy .?" he said, 
 raising his spectacles on his forehead, and 
 looking his man of business earnestly in 
 the face. " We maun on nae account gie 
 in — I'm determined on that." 
 
 " Why, I fancy," replied Mr. Snoddy, 
 " we must carry it into court. The ex- 
 penses on the case are already considera- 
 ble, and it would be a pity to lose 
 them," 
 
 " Well no lose them, if there's justice 
 to be had for love or money," said Mr. 
 Manderston, reddening with anger. " Into 
 court wi' them by a' means, and let's hae 
 a warsle wi' them there." 
 
 Thus instructed, Mr. Snoddy lost no 
 time in taking the necessary steps for 
 bringing the case of Manderston versus 
 Morrison before the Sheriff. These steps 
 gone through, the day and hour of cause 
 was anxiously waited for. 
 
 They came, both to one and to the 
 other ; and when they did, they found Mr, 
 Snoddy at his post, Mr. Snoddy did for 
 his client all that man could do ; but what 
 availed it : the Sheriff held that no man 
 was bound to receive a letter unless he 
 chose it, on whatever ground or pretence 
 it mio;ht be sent, and decerned' with ex- 
 penses, against the pursuer. 
 
 It was to no purpose that Mr. Snoddy 
 urged the reasonableness of his client's ap- 
 plication to his creditor, by letter, for pay- 
 ment of his debt ; and in proof of the 
 bona fide nature of the transaction, read- 
 to the court Mr. Manderston 's first letter 
 to Morrison, the original cause of the 
 whole proceeding, commencing : — " Sir, 
 your old debt which you owe me is now 
 long standing — for about seven years," 
 
 It was to no purpose, we say, that Mr. 
 Snoddy did all this, and a great deal more. 
 Judofment went asrainst him, and the ene- 
 my was victorious. This defeat was heavy 
 news for Mr. Snoddy to bring home to Mr. 
 Manderston ; but he did bring them home 
 to that gentleman, nevertheless, and said it 
 was most " unfortunate," and, '' he would 
 add, most iniquitous." 
 
 Mr. Manderston thought so too, and 
 said he was still determined not to lose 
 his 3s. 4|d. Mr. Snodd}" said he was 
 rio-ht , and added, that he was sure if the 
 case was brought before the Court of Ses- 
 sions, justice would still be obtained ; that 
 they would get a decision in their favor, 
 with costs. 
 
 It was a great and important day for 
 Manderston, the 31st day of the month 
 
302 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 after the events which we have just record- 
 ed took place. 
 
 On tha^ day Mr. Manderston was up at 
 an unusually early hour of the morning, 
 and shortly after, appeared on the main 
 street of Heatherbraes, dressed in his best, 
 carrying a small bundle under his arm, 
 whose outward covering was a bright yel- 
 low silk handkerchief, and wending his way 
 toward the " Hon and Chickens Inn," 
 from whence the " Fly Jack and begone" 
 liofht coach started for Edinburo-h. 
 
 On reaching the yard of the inn, Mr. 
 Manderston was joined by a gentleman in 
 a new full suit of blacks, and otherwise 
 evidently picked out for some great occa- 
 sion. It was Mr. Snoddy. 
 
 On this day the returned letter case was 
 to come before thsLords of Session; and the 
 lawyer and his cli 3nt were now on their way 
 to the mstropolis to be present at the trial. 
 
 Having taken their seats in the vehicle 
 with the curious compound name, the two 
 gentlemen were soon at their destination, 
 and were shortly afterwards seen — Mr. 
 Snoddy piloting the way, and Mr. Mander- 
 ston staverincj after him, wo king their way 
 throuo-h the crowded Parliament House, the 
 buzz and bustle of which greatly surprised 
 and confounded the unsophisticated iron- 
 monger, who had never been there before. 
 
 Mr. Snoddy having now conducted his 
 client into the division where his case was 
 to be tried, whispered two or three words 
 into his ear ; and, by dint of some drag- 
 ginix, hauling, and pushing, succeeded in 
 getting hitn snugly planted in a seat direct- 
 ly behind that usually occupied by the 
 legal gentleman interested in the proceed- 
 ings before the Court. 
 
 Having thus disposed of his client, I\Ir. 
 Snoddy disappeared, but, soon af.er, re- 
 turned, and, stretching across the seats, so 
 as to get as near Mr. Manderston as possi- 
 ble, informed him, in a whisper, " that the 
 case was just coming on." It came on, and 
 one of the most brilliant speeches that ever 
 was heard within the walls of that court- 
 house, was delivered, on this occasion, by 
 
 the counsel employed by Mr. Snoddy for 
 Mr. Manderston's interest. The counsel 
 poened the case by calling it one of the most 
 important, extraordinary, and he said, " he 
 did not hesitate to add, one of the most 
 infamous, on the part of the defenders, 
 that ever perhaps, came before their Lord- 
 ships." He then proceeded to state the 
 grounds on which the action was brousjht. 
 
 *' Nothing," he said, " could be more 
 reasonable in its purpose, nothing more 
 mild in its terms, than his client's letter 
 to Morrison. But, my Lords," he con- 
 tinued, " I do not wish your Lordships to 
 take my unsupported assertion on this 
 point ; I will read to your Lordships the 
 letter itself, which I am fortunate enough 
 to have in my possession. 
 
 " It is dated, your Lordships" — went 
 on the eloquent counsel, now looking on a 
 paper which he had dug out from a mass 
 of documents before him, and. at this mo- 
 ment, held open in his hand — " It is dated, 
 your Lordships, * Htalherhraes^ 24th 
 August, 1813,' and runs thus : — ' Sir, — 
 your old debt which you owe me, is now 
 long standing — for about seven years, 
 and' " 
 
 " Exactly — precisely, sir. That's the 
 identical letter, word for word" — here 
 spoke out some one, in An audible voice, 
 from the seat behind the counsel who was 
 speaking, to the great surprise of the Court, 
 and to the interruption of its proceedings. 
 
 It was Mr. Manderston. His counsel 
 looked at him reprovingly ; Mr. Snoddy 
 stretched his hand towards him deprecat- 
 ingly ; and the bench admonished him 
 severely. 
 
 Harmony restored, the case went on, 
 came to a close and — is the reader pre- 
 pared for such a catastrophe — was decided, 
 once more, in favor of the defenders. 
 
 JMr. Manderston returned home, settled 
 the costs of his case, including Mr. Snod- 
 dy's account, and found, in summing up 
 the various items of his outlay in this 
 affiiir, that he had paid, altogether, iE114 : 
 13 : 9d. for the Returned Letter. 
 
THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 303 
 
 THE CLEEG^MAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Hanging and marriage, tbey say, go by 
 destiny. Of the first, being a very ugly 
 subject, ^Ye do not choose to say anything ; 
 but it is certain that the last is frequently 
 the ofi'spring of curious chances. A re- 
 markable instance of this occurred, about 
 seventy years ago, in the case of a young 
 lady, the daughter of a Highland clergy- 
 man, in one of the remote western isles of 
 Scotland. 
 
 The name of this clergyman was M'lvor. 
 A worthy and good man he was, but one 
 little known to fame. His situation was a 
 distant and obscure one, and but rarely 
 visited by strangers. The island itself is 
 only some ten or fifteen miles in circum- 
 ference! The number of its inhabitants 
 does not — at least did not at the time of 
 which we speak — exceed 150 in number. 
 
 At the head of a little bay, by which 
 the island is indented near the centre, on 
 the east side, the minister's modest man- 
 sion rose. It was a plain two-story house, 
 with a slate roof and brio-ht white-washed 
 walls. From the sea, its appearance was 
 attractive, although, perhaps, this arose as 
 much from the circumstance of its stand- 
 ing alone as from any superior elegance of 
 which it could boast. It was, in truth, a 
 very homely domicile ; but it was unrival- 
 ed — there being no other slate-roofed house 
 on the island, nor one in any way approach- 
 ing it in pretension ; and hence, the dig- 
 nity in which it rejoiced. 
 
 Mr. M'lvor's daughter, whose name 
 was Mary, was a fair-haired, beautiful girl 
 of some seventeen years of age, or there- 
 abouts. Remote and obscure as her situa- 
 tion was, and equally obscure as her des- 
 tiny was likely to be, Mary's education 
 had not been neglected. Her father, who 
 was a learned and accomplished man, had 
 early imbued her with a taste for polite 
 
 literature, and had taught her to read the 
 French and Italian languages with readi- 
 ness and fluency. 
 
 To complete her education, and to af- 
 ford her an opportunity of seeing a little 
 of the world, he had sent her to Edinburo-h 
 for two successive seasons, where she had 
 added to her other accomplishments, a 
 very competent knowledge of music and 
 drawino;. 
 
 Mary M'lvor had now returned to her 
 father's house for good and all ; or, at 
 least, until some of those changes should 
 occur by which the course of human life is 
 chequered. Yet did the fair girl seem, 
 from the circumstances in which she was 
 placed, to be one of those flowers which 
 are doomed to 
 
 '• Waste their sweetness on the deseit air ;" 
 
 for who would think of seeking, or expect 
 to find, so lovely and accomplished a be- 
 ing in so rude and remote a corner of the 
 world? But odd things will happen. They 
 are happening every day. Few, however, 
 more odd have occurred, as the reader, 
 we think, will allow, than that this lonely 
 flower should, in less than twelve months 
 from the period at which we first intro- 
 duce her to the reader, be seen blooming 
 in some of the gayest saloons of Paris, at- 
 tracting and commandino; the admiration 
 of all. That Mary M Ivor, the daughter 
 of an obscure Highland clergyman, should, 
 within that time, be mistress of one of the 
 most masfnificent chateaus on the banks 
 of the Seine. Yet so it was. 
 
 One stormy afternoon, a vessel was 
 driven, by stress of weather, into the little 
 bay, at the head of which stood the min- 
 ister's manse. Shortly after the vessel 
 came to anchor, a boat pushed off from 
 her and made for the shore. 
 
304 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Mr. M'Jvor, on perceiving from trie 
 window of his study, the boat approaching, 
 hastened down stairs, called to his daugh- 
 ter Mary to throw her plaid around her, 
 and to accompany him to the shore to re- 
 ceive the strangers, and to invite them to 
 the manse — a hospitality which the worthy 
 man extended to every stranger who visit- 
 ed the island. The persons in the boat, 
 besides the men who rowed her, were the 
 captain of the vessel, and a tall, swarthy, 
 gentlemanly-looking young man, having 
 the appearance of a foreigner ; and such 
 he reall}' was. Mr. M'lvor having intro- 
 duced himself and his daughter to the 
 strangers, invited them to the manse. The 
 invitation was at once accepted, and with 
 many expressions of thanks. 
 
 Hitherto the conver?ation had been con- 
 ducted on the part of the strangers, en- 
 tirely by the captain, who was an English- 
 man ; his companion, if such a term will 
 apply to one whom lie seemed to treat 
 with the utmost deference and respect, 
 understanding nothing of the English lan- 
 guage. The captain now informed Mr. 
 JVl'Ivor that his passenger was a French 
 nobleman, the Count de I'Orme. That 
 he had taken a passage by him at Bordeaux 
 for Liverpool, on an intended visit to Eng- 
 land, and that they had been thus far dri- 
 ven out of their course by contrary winds. 
 
 On learning these particulars, Mr. 
 M'lvor, who spoke French with tolerable 
 fluency, immediately addressed the count 
 in that lano-uao-e. The latter, at once sur- 
 prised and delighted to find his native 
 tongue understood by their proposed en- 
 tertainer, became lively, cheerful, and 
 communicative. But when he discovered 
 — which he soon did, by her looks of in- 
 telligence, and her earnest attention to 
 what he and her father were saying — 
 that the fair girl who leant on the arm 
 of the latter, also understood the French 
 language, his delight knew no bounds. 
 
 From that moment, he directed the 
 most pointed attentions to her, and with 
 the graceful manners of the ancient chival- 
 
 ry of France, sought, and not in vain, to 
 render himself agreeable in the eyes of 
 Mary M'lvor. 
 
 In the meantime, the party proceeded 
 to the manse, beguiling the way with a 
 lively conversation, in which the blushino" 
 little island maiden was led to take a part, 
 by the courtesies and gallantries of the 
 noble stranger. 
 
 On gaining the manse, the visiters were 
 ushered into the minister's comfortable 
 little parlor, where they were hospitably 
 entertained until a pretty late hour of the 
 night, when the count proposed that he 
 and the captain should return on board. 
 To this proposal their kind-hearted host 
 would not listen, but insisted that they 
 should take up their quarters in the manse 
 till the vessel sailed. His guests, at first, 
 objected to this arrangement; but, it was 
 finally settled that the captain should re- 
 turn on board, and that the count should 
 remain. 
 
 From the moment in which the count 
 first saw Miss M'lvor, he appeared to 
 have been struck with her beauty, for fre- 
 quent and earnest were the gazes which he 
 fixed on her fair countenance, and the 
 subsequent discovery of her accomplish- 
 ments, her refined tastes, and highly 
 cultivated mind, which his residence at the 
 manse enabled him to make, completed 
 the conquest which her beauty had begun. 
 
 For a week, the vessel by which the 
 Count de I'Orme was passenger, was de- 
 tained by contrary winds in the little bay 
 of Machray ; and during all this time, the 
 latter was an inmate of the manse. 
 
 But was it, indeed, adverse winds that 
 detained the vessel so long .'' We doubt 
 it. Well, then, if truth must be told, it 
 was not. On the very next day she might 
 have sailed, but a word in the captain's 
 ear from the count, with a whisper of am- 
 ple indemnification to himself and owners, 
 kept the ship at her anchors for a week. 
 
 Ere that week had expired, however, 
 the Count de TOrme had, with the consent 
 of her father, made offer of his hand to 
 
THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 306 
 
 Maiy M'lvor. It was accepted, and in a 
 month after, the count, who had in the 
 meantime fulfilled his intention of visiting 
 England, and who had, during the same 
 interval, made the necessary arrangements 
 for his marriage, returned with a friend to 
 the lonely little Scottish isle to claim his 
 island bride. 
 
 The ceremony of their marriage was 
 performed by Miss M 'Ivor's father. 
 
 In fourteen days after, the Countess do 
 I'Orme was installed in the magnificent 
 Chateau de Chauvergne, on the banks of 
 the Seine, as mistress of all its wealthj and 
 of the fair domains that spread far and 
 wide around it. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE 
 
 The following tale was communicated to 
 me when in Dumfrieshire, in the year 
 1S27, by an old and respectable lady, who 
 was herself the subject of it. It interested 
 me then, and I shall endeavor to tell it to 
 my readers as she told it to me. But, as 
 she may be still living, I shall change the 
 name, though I then had her permission 
 to publish it, and, to use her own words, 
 " to write a Tale about it if I pleased." 
 I shall therefore speak of her as Mrs. 
 Isabella Simpson.. 
 
 My father, she began, was weel to do in 
 the world. He had a farm that bordered 
 on the Nith, between Dumfries and San- 
 quhar. The laird and him had been 
 companions frae they were bits o' leddies, 
 and he had a guid bargain o't, and made a 
 hantel o' siller. He was rather a purse- 
 proud man, but a kind faither in the main, 
 for a' that. My mother was a woman 
 amonn: ten thousand — ye migrht hae search- 
 ed ten parishes and not found her equal — 
 my faither allowed that ; and he had a right 
 to ken, for she was his wife thirty years. 
 She was the best tempered woman that 
 I've ever met wi' in my born days ; and, 
 without having the least particle o' mean- 
 ness about her, she was as thrifty as she 
 was good-tempered. She had also been a 
 particularly weelfaured woman. An aulder 
 
 VOL II. 67 
 
 brother and mysel' were the only bairns 
 that they had living, and we were accord- 
 ingly a goo-d deal made o', especially by 
 our mother. It was generally believed 
 that I would brino; a fortune to the man 
 that got m-e, and when I grew up to wo- 
 man's estate, there were a number o' 
 young lads that professed to be very fond 
 o' me ; but for my part I had no liking 
 for any o' them save one, and that was 
 Peter Simpson. He was a blate lad, and 
 I didna ken that he was fond o' me frae 
 himsel ; but my pccquaintancesused to jeer 
 me about him, and say, " Isabella, if ye 
 dinna tak pity on puir Peter Simpson, the 
 lad will do some ill to himsel'. He is 
 fairly owre head and ears aboot ye." 
 
 " Hoots !" said I, "nane o' yer havers 
 — the ne'er a fears o' him. The lad ne- 
 ver spoke to me in his life." 
 
 And sure enough, fis I have tauld ye, 
 he never had. But I used to remark his 
 confusion when he passed me, as he half 
 looked at me, and half turned away his 
 head, and I'm sure I was as confused as 
 he was ; and it was a'thegither on account 
 o' our acquaintances jeering me about 
 him. At the kirk, too, on the Sabbath, I 
 often used to observe his een fixed on me ; 
 and when he perceived that I saw him, he 
 i would turn away his head, and his cheeks, 
 
 \ r-: 
 
306 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 his very brow, grew as red as the morocco 
 on the back of the laird and his lady's 
 bible's. 
 
 Peter's faither was a farmer like my 
 own, and we were on an equality in that 
 respect ; but he had taken a fancy to be 
 a millwright, and was serving his time for 
 that business in Dumfries. Now, there 
 was one day that I had been in the town, 
 making some bits o' bargains at the shops 
 for my mother ; but, just as I was com- 
 pleting them, a terrible storm came away ; 
 it rained a perfect down-pour — such a 
 spate as I never saw. Umbrellas had 
 hardly been seen in the country at that 
 time, and it wasna one in five hundred that 
 had a one. I had no acquaintances in 
 Dumfries, and I was forced to stop in the 
 shop. But I remained from four in the 
 afternoon until seven at night, and it 
 rained as fast as ever — it was aiever like 
 to fair. It was beflrinnino; to set down for 
 dark, I was feared to gang hame at night, 
 by myseP, and I saw it was o' no use stop- 
 ping ony longer — so I left the shop, but 
 before I had got three yards from the door, 
 who should come bang against me, as he 
 ran wi' his head down for the rain, but 
 Peter Simpson !" 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Isa- 
 bella," said he, when he saw who I was ; 
 and he looked very confused. 
 
 " There is nae harm done," said I. 
 " Ye haena to gang hame in sic a nicht 
 as this .^" said he. 
 
 " Indeed hae I," said I, 
 " Then," said he, "if ye'll just step into 
 the shop there for a minute, I think I ken 
 where I could borrow ye an umbrella." 
 
 I thought it was remarkably kind o' him, 
 and I gaed back to the shop again. He 
 hadna been away a handel-awhile, whenin 
 a very jiffy he came running back wi' an 
 umbrella in his hand. I went to the door 
 as soon as I saw him, and he lifted up the 
 umbrella owre my head and held out his 
 oxter to me. I canna tell what my feel- 
 ings were at the moment. I forgot that it 
 was a down-pour o' rain and everything 
 
 else, and I wonder that I didna lose my 
 mother's bundle frae under my ann. But 
 1 took his oxter, and wi' the -umbrella 
 owre our heads we gaed linking awa the- 
 gither — and, between you and me, I was 
 glad o' his company for more reasons than 
 one. 
 
 I never had any idea before that um- 
 brellas could be such comfortable thino-s. 
 
 c 
 
 It made it as pleasant owre our heads as if 
 the sun had been shining on us. Under 
 foot it wasna just so agreeable, for the 
 water was running across the roads in 
 many places just like rivers, and I had 
 either to wade knee-deep, or to allow 
 Peter to take me up in his arm and carry 
 me through, which he did ; though I was 
 very greatly put about before 1 could 
 think o' allowinor him to do it. 
 
 But I got home, and when we reached 
 the door, Peter was sae backward that he 
 held out his hand to bid me " good night," 
 without gaun into the house wi' me. 
 
 " Oh," says J, " ye maunna gang awa 
 yet — ^for when my mother hears o' yer 
 kindness, if she kenned that I had let ye 
 gang back at the door without askin ye in, 
 she would be very angry." 
 
 So I got him prevailed up&a to gang in 
 wi' me, and when I tauld my mother how 
 attentive he had been, and how he had 
 borrowed the umbrella, and accompanied 
 me a' the way, she didna ken where to set 
 him. There was naething in the house 
 that she thought owre good for him. She 
 got him to put off his coat, and his shoon 
 and his stockings, and gied him things o' 
 my brother's to put on. My faither wasna 
 at hame, I remember — I think he was in 
 about Edinburgh at the time. My mother 
 pressed Peter to stop and take his supper 
 wi' us ; and he did stop, and began to 
 gather more courage, and to get the use o' 
 his tongue. The supper was laid out, and 
 a hearty meal he made, and glad was I to 
 see him eat sae freely. After supper, my 
 mother brought out the bottle and gied 
 him a dram, and Peter drank baith our 
 very good healths. 
 
THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 307 
 
 Just as he was on his feet to gang away, 
 my mother had to turn her back for a 
 minute, and says he to me, while he keepit 
 turning his hat roun<i about in his hand — 
 " Guid nicht, Isabella — when may I come 
 back ao[;ain r" 
 
 *' Hoots !" said 1, without meaninij the 
 slightest harm, and not for a moment in- 
 tending to forbid him to come back. He 
 huno; down his head, and with a sort o' 
 sigh, gaed away without saying any mair. 
 But ni2:ht after night came, an' week 
 after week, an' I saw nae mair o' Peter 
 Simpson ; he hadna courage to venture 
 back again, although it was not my in- 
 tention to discourage him by saying — 
 "Hoots!" 
 
 About three months after this, my mo- 
 ther was suddenly cut off frae among us 
 and called to her account. I was naturally 
 appointed housekeeper in her place. Now, 
 we had a windmill on the farm, and the 
 mill was out o' repair, and the millwrights 
 were to come frae Dumfries to put it to 
 rights, and till their job was finished they 
 were to get their meat in the house. 1 
 wished that Peter might be one o' them, 
 and he was one o' them. Our acquaint- 
 ance was renewed. Peter's shyness gra- 
 dually wore away, and I daresay that, for 
 a year and a half, for five nights out o' the 
 seven, he came regularly to see me. We 
 were very happy. I liked him, and he 
 liked me. But his faither sent him to the 
 south for a year or two, to some great men 
 they ca'ed Mr. Bolton and Mr. Watt, to 
 get a thorough insight into his business 
 before he sat him up for himsel. Hech 
 me ! what insight he got about wheels, 
 and mills, or machines, I canna tell ye ; 
 but he got an unco insight into wicked- 
 ness. 
 
 During his absence, my faither had 
 married a second wife, which I considered 
 as very disrespectful to the memory o' my 
 mother, and 1 was very ill about it. I 
 was loath to gie up the keys o' the house 
 to a stranger that wasna meikle aulder 
 than mysel, and to gie up my situation 
 
 as housekeeper. I didna like to submit 
 ta her ; but my faither said that I should 
 submit or leave the house— and what could 
 I do ? But I wearied for Peter to come 
 back, and, were it for no other reason, 
 just that I might hae a house o' my ain, 
 where I might hae the liberty o' doing 
 what 1 liked without being quarrelled. 
 
 But Peter did come back, and there was 
 a very great change upon him indeed, 
 though not for the better. He certainly 
 looked a great deai smarter than when he 
 went away, and I didna ken where he had 
 left his former blateness ; but he brought 
 none o't back wi' him. His language was 
 quite Englified ; and, amongst other bad 
 practices which he had acquired, I was 
 baith sorry and disgusted to remark that 
 of profane swearing ! — which he actually 
 did as though he werna conscious o' what 
 he was saying. sir ! I think there is 
 naething that makes a man look mair de- 
 graded and contemptible than this most 
 senseless o' a' sinfu' practices. It is lower 
 than even daily drunkenness. I ken nae- 
 fching sae bad. However, 1 must say for 
 him, there seemed no abatement in his 
 affections for me : and I resolved that, as 
 soon as we were married, I would cure him 
 o-' the bad practices he had acquired. 
 
 To my sorrow and surprise, however, 
 ye might as weel hae taken an adder by 
 the beard as spoken to my faither o' our 
 marriage. He set himself tooth and nail 
 against it. 
 
 " Na, na !" said he ; " if I were to al- 
 low ye to throw yersel awa upon that 
 young, graceless birkie, he would squander 
 away the thousand pounds that ye hae for 
 a portion, and break your heart into the ! 
 bargain within a twalmonth." 
 
 It was in vain that I grat before my 
 faither and tried to reason wi' him. I 
 might as weel hae let my tears fall on a 
 neither millstone wi' the hope o' softening 
 it. Peter vowed, however, that he no 
 cared a snap o' his fingers for neither my 
 faither nor the fortune he had to gie me — 
 that it was me he wanted, and me he 
 
 I 
 
308 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 would hae. The short and the long o' the 
 story is, that, finding there was nothing to 
 be made o' mj faither, and that he wadna 
 come to, Peter got me to consent to elope 
 wi' him. My conscience tauld me that I 
 was doing a daft-like action, and a thing 1 
 wad maybe rue. But Peter, according 
 to an agreement between us, came to 
 my bedroom window, which, after some 
 hesitation, when I saw his frenzy and im- 
 patience, I opened, and he threw up to 
 me the queerest sort o' ladder I ever saw. 
 It was just bits o' sma' rope tied thegither, 
 wi' twa cleeks at the one end. I had no 
 sooner done wi' it as he desired me, than 
 up he came, and whispering to me to come 
 out at the window and place my foot on 
 it, I did so, and he taking me under his 
 arm, lighted me safe upon the ground in a 
 moment. 
 
 One o' his faither 's servants was stand- 
 ing at a distance holding a horse, ready 
 saddled to carry two. I gat on to the pad 
 bihint Peter, and he galloped away till he 
 came to the side o' the Soiway, and there 
 I found a boat was lying ready to take us 
 across to Workington. Peter took out a 
 license, and that day I became Mrs. 
 Simpson. I heard that, when my faither 
 learned in the morning that I had run 
 away, he didna offer to come after me, but 
 he shaked his head and said — ^' Aweel ! 
 ' they that will to Cupar maun to Cupar !' 
 Poor infatuated lassie ! — sorrow will bring 
 her to her hunkers, and she will be glad 
 to come back to the house that she has 
 clandestine left ; and, come when she like, 
 for her mother's sake, she shall a^^e find a 
 hame !" 
 
 He said this when his wife was not pre- 
 sent. I hae often thought that there is 
 something prophetic in a parent's words, 
 especially when they speak concerning the 
 consequences o' disobedience ; and in my 
 case 1 found much o' what my faither said 
 owre true. 
 
 Peter, however, had begun business, 
 and he and I set up house. Trade was 
 very guid in the millwright line at that 
 
 period, for thrashing machines were just 
 getting into vogue, though ignorant folk 
 raised an unco outcry against them. My 
 husband's having been wi' the great men, 
 Mr. Bolton and Mr. Watt, threw a good 
 deal in his way ; and, on the second year 
 after he began business, we had fifteen 
 journeymen constantly employed, besides 
 apprentices. Now, Peter was very clever, 
 and everybody said that he was turning out 
 a " bright fellow." Four years and better 
 passed owre our heads, and I m sure there 
 wasna a happier woman than me to be met 
 wi' round the whole circumference o' the 
 globe. I had twa bits o' bairns, a laddie 
 and a lassie, and was likely to hae a third. 
 1 had got Peter so broken off the evil 
 practices which he learned in the south, 
 o' which I hae spoken, that he never swore, 
 except when he was in a passion ; and, 
 though that was more frequently than I 
 wished — for he was of a fiery temper — yet 
 it never lasted lang, and he was always 
 sorrow for it afterwards. Even my faither 
 heard sae meikle about his behavior and 
 j cleverness, and his affection for me and 
 the bairns, that he called one day at our 
 house, and, after making an apology for 
 being angry at our marriage, he actually 
 paid the thousand pounds that were to be 
 my portion, down upon the nail. 
 
 " Weel, as I have said, this state o' 
 happiness continued for four years and 
 better ; but it didna see the fifth year out. 
 Peter had a job that would take a twal- 
 month in completing, some way in the 
 neighborhood o' Durham. All our men, 
 save a journeyman and an apprentice or 
 two, were there, for the work had to be 
 finished by a certain time, and Peter was 
 there himself also. He was only to be 
 hame about once a month ; and, for the 
 first eight weeks that he was there, he was 
 very attentive in writing every week, and 
 came thrice across to see me and the 
 bairns. But, on the ninth week we had 
 no letter, on the tenth we had none, and 
 one came on the thirte ^nth. It was mere- 
 ly three or four lines at the most, and in- 
 
THli: DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 309 
 
 stead of beginning it — " My dear Isabel- 
 la^'''' as all his former letters began, (and 
 long letters they were), he merely said, 
 " Dear Wife^'''^ and informed mc that he 
 was weel, that he hoped I would study 
 economy in everything in his absence, and 
 gie his love to the bairns, and that it was 
 impossible for him to say when he would be 
 across to see us again. I was dumfoun- 
 dered — I read the letter asrain and anfain, 
 and as I read the tears fell down my 
 cheeks. "What," thought!, " can hae 
 possessed Peter !" 
 
 It was ten weeks before I again saw his 
 face ; and when he did come, he was as 
 dour and as ill natured as if I had been 
 his enemy instead o' the wife o^ his bosom, 
 and he hadna even a pleasant look or a 
 pleasant word to gie to the bairns. 
 
 " Peter !" says I, " what's the matter 
 wi' ye — what has happened ? Will ye no 
 tell me, yer ain wife, that wishes nae mair 
 than to share wi' you whether it be j 3y or 
 sorrow ! Is the job likely to be a loss to 
 ve— ^or what ?'' 
 
 " Haud your tongue, ye silly woman, 
 ye !" said he — " why do ye trouble me wi' 
 your nonsense ?" 
 
 " Peter !" said I, "this behavior o' 
 yours is distressing me beyont measure. 
 Will ye no tell me what is the cause o't, 
 or if 1 can do onything to mak ye hap- 
 pier f^" 
 
 " Get oot o' my sicht ?" cried he ; "I 
 tell ye get out o' my sicht ! — and if ony- 
 thing will mak me happier that will !" 
 
 My heart was ready to burst ; my poor 
 bosom heaved like a bird's that has been 
 pursued by a hawk, till it falls upon the 
 ground. 1 sank down upon the chair, and 
 I was only able to cry to our auldest bairn 
 — " O hinny, bring me a drink o' water !'' 
 And the words were hardly out o' my lips 
 when I swooned clean away. 
 
 I had an infant o' nine weeks auld at 
 the time ; but Peter shewed nae regard 
 for either the bit tender lammie or its mo- 
 ther. He went out o' the house, driving 
 the doors behint him. and that very night 
 
 set out for Durham ajrain. I thought the 
 change in his conduct would be my death, 
 and I tried in vain to imagine what could 
 be the reason o' it. It laid me bedfast 
 for a fortnight, and the poor infant at my 
 bosom began to dwine through the effects 
 o' my illness. 
 
 Ten miserable and anxious weeks pass- 
 ed, and Peter neither came to see us, nor 
 wrote, nor sent us siller for our support. 
 1 was tempted to mention the circum- 
 stances to my faither, and to ask his ad- 
 vice ; but i thought again that it might be 
 making bad worse, and that it was be>st for 
 me as a wife and mother to keep my sor- 
 rows to mysel, without making them a 
 world's talk. So I buried my misery and 
 anxiety in my own heart, and no one knew 
 of it from me, save from the unco chano-e 
 that had been wrought upon my appear- 
 ance. But my heart was for ever sick, 
 and my bit infant, through the effect o' 
 my misery, died in my arms. 
 
 I got word sent to Peter, but he didna 
 come to assist or comfort me in my dis- 
 tress, until within half an hour o' the time 
 set for lifting the corpse. When I saw 
 him enter the house, 1 wrung my hands, 
 and cried " O Peter !" and got up to meet 
 him — to throw my head upon his breast — 
 for I thought it might still find comfort 
 there ; but he said coldly — " Compose 
 yourself!" And without even coming for- 
 ward to meet me, or to shake hands wi' 
 me, he took a chair aid sat down. His 
 manner, his cauld words, went like an ar- 
 row through my miserable bosom. I wish- 
 ed to be wi' my dead infant, and I sank 
 back upon a seat and sobbed aloud. 
 
 When the funeral was owre, and the 
 folk had left the house, he got up and 
 said — " I haena time to stop. The work 
 must be got forward, and the men can do 
 nothing till I am wi' them again in the 
 moi'ning. Therefore I maun bid ye good- 
 day." 
 
 "O Peter! Peter!" cried I, " will ye 
 leave me in the midst o' mj affliction ! 
 what hae I dune, dear, that ye should be 
 
310 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 sae changed to me ? There was a time 
 when ye waclna used me in this way Only 
 let me ken my fault and thsre is nacthing 
 in this wide world that I winna do to mend 
 it." 
 
 " Ye talk as a fool, woman !" said he. 
 
 '' No, Peter," 1 answered, " I dinna 
 talk as a fool ; but I talk as a heart broken 
 wife and a mourning mother. Wee' do 
 ye ken that I would lay the hair o' my 
 head beneath your feet to serve ye ; and 
 there was a time when ye would hae done 
 as meikle for me. But its no the case wi' 
 ye now — and, O Peter ! — what — what is 
 the reason ? What hae I dune to offend 
 ye.^" 
 
 " Are ye dementit, Bella, or what is the 
 matter wi' ye .^" said he, crossly ; " I tell 
 ye I am bound to get the work forward — 
 it will be at a stand if I stop here. There- 
 fore, 1 hae nae time to be tormented wi' 
 yer nonsense, and so — good day !" 
 
 " Peter ! — husband !" I cried, and flung 
 my arms round his neck — " do you mean 
 to kill me outright ? Oh ! by the love ye 
 once bore me, and by the vows ye made, 
 dinna drive me from your breast as if I 
 were a serpent. I am the mother o' yer 
 bairns, Peter — her that ye used to say was 
 dearer to ye than your own existence — 
 and how can ye treat me sae now .'''' He 
 kissed my cheek, and for a moment I 
 thought I saw tears in his een. But he 
 shook me by the hand, and saying, " I 
 canna stop," broke away frae me, and left 
 me to my misery. 
 
 A thousand hopes and suspicions now 
 began to rise up in my mind and torment 
 me. I was the most unhappy woman un- 
 der the sun. Yet I couldna bring mysel 
 to believe ill o' Peter. 1 never saw his 
 face again until the job was finished, and 
 he very seldom wrote, and only sent a 
 pound note or sae now and then, for the 
 support o' mo and the bairns. 
 
 When the concern at Durham was finish- 
 ed, he got another in Cheshire, which I 
 heard would be two or three years in com- 
 pleting. The whole o' baith his men and 
 
 apprentices were there wi' him ; and, in a 
 short time, he dropped sending the bit 
 pound note now and then ; and it was wi' 
 a sair, sair struggle, that I could get bread 
 for my bairns, or make a decent appear- 
 ance ; and 1 thought that I would now be 
 compelled to make known a' my sorrows 
 to my faith er. 
 
 But what I had lang dreaded, though I 
 couldna wrang Peter by believing it pos- 
 sible, was revealed to me like a clap o' 
 thunder. There was a Mrs. Montgomery, 
 who was a very particular acquaintance o' 
 mine ; and, though I had never hinted a 
 word o' my griefs to her, but tried to look 
 cheerfu' when the canker-worm was eating 
 at my very heart, she saw that I had a se- 
 cret sorrow in my breast, and that I was 
 pining under neglect. She was in very 
 comfortable circumstances, and she had an 
 only son, and he was an apprentice wi' 
 Peter, and was working wi' him in Che- 
 shire. She had invited the twa bairns and 
 me to spend the afternoon wi' her, and 
 take a dish o' tea. But, just as the lass 
 had brought in the tray, we heard a heavy 
 foot on the stairs, and in came Mrs. 
 Montgomery's son, tired-looking, broken 
 down, and foot-sore. 
 
 "Johnny! — my bairn!" said his mo- 
 ther, " what's brought ye the noo f Ye 
 haena broken your 'prenticeship !" The 
 bit callant said he had to run away, vn' 
 the ill usage o' his mister and inislress ! 
 
 " Mistress! laddie!" I gasped — ''what 
 — what do ye mean .^" 
 
 " I mean to say," quoth the laddie, 
 " that he is a bad man, and has another 
 wife besides you, ma'am, and a family 
 too !" 
 
 " Peter ! — cruel Peter !" I cried, and 
 I fell down upon the floor as if I were 
 dead. 
 
 It was wi' great difiiculty that Mrs, 
 Montgomery could restore me to con- 
 sciousness, or bring me to onything like 
 composure. But she kindly pressed me 
 if there was ony way in which she could 
 serve me, and 1 borrowed from her a five 
 
THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 311 
 
 pound note, and the next morning, before 
 onybodj was astir, I locked up the house, 
 and wi' one bairnie in my arms, and the 
 other leading in my hand, I took the Car- 
 lisle road to'the south. Sometimes we got 
 a cast in a carrier's cart, or went a stage 
 or twa in the coachas that overtook us on I 
 the road, but for the most part I walked | 
 on foot, carryinn: my helpless bairns. At 
 length, after a weary journey, we reached 
 Macclesfiald, which was tha name o' the 
 town where Peter was ; and when I was 
 there, I had great difficulty to learn ony- 
 thing concerning him; but at last 1 in 
 quired at an ii-onmongcr's shop, and I was 
 informed there that he lived about a mile 
 and a half down the river — and I think 
 they ca'ed the river the Bodlin. Sae, wi' 
 my bairnies toddlin' and tired by my side, 
 for I was sae fatia;u9d that 1 couldna carry 
 them, I gaed away down by the river to 
 seek for him. My laddie, tired as he was, 
 poor thing, hirpled away about a dozsn o' 
 yards before me, pulling at the gowans and 
 other flowers, and every now and then cry- 
 ing to me — ''O mother, here's a bonny 
 ane ! — 111 gie my faither this ! — will it be 
 lang or we see him noo ? 
 
 " No, my dear," said I, " it winna be 
 lan^: noo." And the tears were hailinsr 
 down my cheeks as I spoke. 
 
 But, as I was saying, my bairn was 
 about a dozen o' yards before me, and he 
 was just turning a sort o' corner, when he 
 cried out — " Mother ! mother ! — here's 
 my faither coming tO' meet us !" 
 
 My broken heart louped to my mouth. 
 I cried — " O hinny ! hinny ! — what da you 
 say.'" But, as I spoke, I got to the cor- 
 ner, and there, within a half a stone throw 
 o' me, did I see Peter — my husband ! — 
 wi' a lang yellow hizzy, dressed like a 
 queen, linked to his arm, and a servant 
 wench carrying a bairn behint them ! 
 
 I saw my laddie running wi' his hands 
 out to meet him, and 1 heard him crying 
 — " Faither ! faither ! — here's my mother 
 and my sister !" 
 
 But my poor dazied head swam round. 
 
 1 could hear, I could see nae mair ; and, 
 wi' a scream o' misery, I fell senseless on 
 the green grass. As 1 began to recover, 
 I felt cauld water pouring on my breast 
 and face, and when I open my een, it was 
 Peter that did it. Even then, I could hae 
 forgien him a' that was passed, and 1 tried 
 to rise, and, stretching out my hand to 
 him, said, affectionately, but not upbraid- 
 ingly— " O Peter !" 
 
 "Woman!" said he, and he looked 
 fiercely as an angry lion, and his teeth 
 were grating one upon another, " why hae 
 ye come^ here to torment and persecute 
 me ? Go back to your faither's — go where 
 you like — take your bairns wi' je — 1 will 
 gie jow and them a maintenance ; but 
 never let me see your face again." 
 
 My poor bairns were screaming round 
 about me, thev were kissins; me and cling- 
 ing round my neck. The strength and 
 the presence o' mind wi' which I was then 
 inspired surprises me to this moment. I 
 rose upon my feet, I looked him brent in 
 the face, and his guiltiness made him hang 
 down his head before me. 
 
 " Peter," said I, "if I am not worthy 
 o' yer heart, I winna accept o' bread at 
 yer hands. For thir dear bairns that I 
 hae borne, I am ready to- beg to the world's 
 end. I will work for them till the nails 
 fa' frae my fingers ; but I will die, Peter, 
 and they shall perish for want, before they 
 taste a morsel o' your providing ! Fare- 
 weel ! cruel, ungratefu' man ! — and may 
 ye never feel the pangs o' the poor heart 
 that ye hae broken!" 
 
 "Villain that I am !" he cried. And 
 striking his clenched hand upon his brow, 
 he left me and my bairns. 
 
 Where the hizzy that I saw wi' him, 
 
 \ and her servant and bairn, were a' the 
 
 time, I didna see, and I didna inquire. 
 
 But not to fatigue you, sir, wi' a lang 
 
 1 story — I had husbanded the five pounds 
 
 i that Mrs. Montgomery lent me in such a 
 
 I way that I thought I had enough left to 
 
 I carry me back again to Dumfriesshire. 
 
 We had reached within a mile o' Preston, 
 
312 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 when wha should we meet upon horseback, 
 but mj auld faither coming to look after 
 us ! Mrs. Montgomery had informed him 
 o' the whole particulars, and he nae sooner 
 heard o' them than he set out to see that 
 nae harm was done to his Isabella. The 
 auld grey-haired man jumped down frae 
 his horse, and grat upon my neck like a 
 bairn. He sent us by the next coach to 
 Carlisle ; and he took me and my bairns 
 hame wi' him ; and there I found that a 
 good mother was my step-mother to me in 
 my distress : and she was mair than a 
 grandmother to my bairns. 
 
 When my son was about eighteen, my 
 father died ; and besides the portion that 
 I had got after my marriage, he bequeath- 
 ed to me in his will what had been an in- 
 dependence. 
 
 I had heard nothing about my husband 
 for nearly twenty years. I didna ken 
 whether he was dead or living. But my 
 son took a fancy for the sea ; and, before 
 he was twenty-one, he was a ship captain 
 in the American trade. His vessel was 
 lying at New York, when there was a 
 middle-aged broken-down man — one that 
 
 seemed to be mined both in health and 
 circumstances — came aboard and begged 
 for the sake o' Heaven that he would gie 
 him a passage to England. My son asked 
 him several questions, and, O sir ! sir ! — 
 he discovered that the poor beggar before 
 him was his own faither — his thoughtless 
 faither ! He didna chide him, he didna 
 upbraid him — for oh, it is a terrible thing 
 for a son to speak like a condemning judge 
 to a faither. 1 needna tell ye that he 
 brought him hame — that he did everything 
 to restore him to health and happiness — 
 and even brought him as a criminal before 
 me. But I kenned him at the first glance, 
 and welcomed him wi' open arms. 
 
 "O Isabella! Isabella!" he cried, and 
 fell at my feet. 
 
 '• Husband ! husband !" said I, helping 
 our son to raise him up, " there is joy 
 owre those that repent. Welcome ! — wel- 
 come !" 
 
 He lived for twelve years after this, and 
 he died a sincere penitent, wi' his head 
 upon my bosom, and his hand in my hand, 
 imploring a blessing upon me and his 
 bairns. 
 
 THE INTENDED BRIDEGROOMS. 
 
 When we inform the public that they may 
 rely upon the truth of the following story, 
 which tells a pregnant moral, and points 
 to the consequences of a vice for which 
 our country (unfortunately) stands pre- 
 eminent among the nations of the earth, 
 we have, perhaps, done as much for the 
 cause of sobriety as could be efi"ected by 
 the proudest triumph of the moral teacher. 
 The vice of drunkenness is too often repro- 
 bated only for its effects on the moral and 
 physical health, and the worldly interests 
 of the unhappy votaries themselves ; but 
 
 there are evils beyond these, which extend 
 their influence far and wide throughout 
 society — dissolving endearing links, entail- 
 ing misery and death on those who are 
 nearest and dearest to the deluded victims ; 
 and only repented of when all is beyond 
 the hope of cure or amendment. 
 
 Walter Brown and James ]\Iaitland had 
 been intimate friends from their boyhood. 
 They had gone through the progressive 
 classes of the grammar school together, 
 and together had completed their ed- 
 ucation at the univer.-:ity. They enter- 
 
THE INTENDED BRIDEGROOMS. 
 
 313 
 
 ed it on the same day, and on the same 
 day left it. Unlike many of the friend- 
 ships of youth, however, that of Brown 
 and Maitland did not terminate with their 
 educational course ; it continued with un- 
 abated warmth and sincerity after they had 
 entsred into the world and begun to share 
 in its perplexities and troubles But of 
 these perplexities and troubles, it must be 
 confassed, neither of the young men had 
 by any means an undue proportion. Their 
 fathers were both wealthy, and thus was 
 their way smoothed to prosperity. 
 
 It Was about this period — that is, after 
 Brown and Maitland had entered inco the 
 world — that I became acquainted with 
 them. It was in the year IS — . This 
 acquaintance soon ripened into a sincere 
 and cordial friendship. It was impossible 
 it could be otherwise, at least on my part, 
 for they were both excellent young men ; 
 highly educated and accomplished ; pos- i 
 sessed of first rate abilities, amiable in 
 their disposition, and of noble and gene- 
 rous natures ; in short, they were altoge- 
 ther two as fine young fellows as the city 
 
 of G— could produce. They we^e 
 
 both, at this time, about five-and-twenty 
 years of age. As there were many points 
 of similaiity between them, and many 
 striking coincidences in various circum- 
 stances, so did this sort of parallel progres- 
 sion continue after they had entered into 
 life. They fell in love nearly at the same 
 time ; and, after a courtship of some 
 month or two's continuance — during all 
 which time they had made confidants of 
 each other, and faithfully reported pro- 
 gress, from time to time, as they advanced 
 in their suits — they determined on " pop- 
 ping the question " on the same day, and, 
 if favorably answered, that the same day 
 should see them united. 
 
 The objects of their choice were both 
 beautiful and accomplished girls, and pos- 
 sessed of considerable fortunes. 1 knew 
 them intimately, and was perfectly aware 
 of the relationship in which thoy stood to 
 my two friends ; for I, too, was made a 
 
 confidant in this matter, and was occasion- 
 ally informed by the young men them- 
 selves of the progress of thair courtships. 
 This attachment at length came to the 
 usual crisis where the course of true love 
 does run smooth. The lovers declared 
 themselves, and were accepted with the 
 full and free consent of all interested. 
 The matches were thought highly eligible 
 on all sides. I have already said that my 
 friends had agreed to " propose " on the 
 same day ; nay, they reduced this under- 
 standing, as nearly as they possibly could, 
 to the same hour. To this arrangement I 
 was made privy ; and it was agreed 
 amongst us that they should meet in my 
 room immediately after the important in- 
 terview had taken place, and then and there 
 announce to each other the results of their 
 respective overtures. The hour of meet- 
 ing at my apartments was fixed for eight 
 o'clock in the evening ; and at six the 
 lovers repaired to their mistresses. Feel- 
 ing deeply interested in the proceedings 
 of my friends on this eventful night, it was 
 with no little impatience and anxiety 1 
 waited for their appearance as the hour of 
 eight approached. I tried to beguile the 
 time by reading, but it would not do ; the 
 intense curiosity I felt as to the results of 
 the affair on the tapis with my friends, 
 prevented me applying my mind to any- 
 thing but wandering speculations on the 
 deeply interesting matter in which they 
 were engaged. While I was thus employ- 
 ed the appointed hour struck ; and, in a 
 few minutes after, I heard a rapid foot on 
 the stair. 1 knew it to be either Maitland 
 or Brown ; and I augured well for the 
 happiness of the party, whichever of them 
 it was, from the lightness and vivacity of 
 his footsteps. I was right in my conjec- 
 ture as to the coming visiter : in a second 
 after, Maitland, with a face radiant with 
 joy, and with a loud expression of exulta- 
 tion, burst into my room. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! Bob," said I, stretching 
 out my hand to him, " I see I may wish 
 you joy. You need not say a word on 
 
311 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 the subject; your looks tell the happy 
 tale." 
 
 " Right, right, Tom," replied Mait- 
 land, seizing my hand with wild glee ; " 1 
 am a happy man. It's all settled with 
 father and all. But what's become of 
 Brown.? I hope, poor fellow, he's been 
 as successful as I have been ; it would 
 lessen my happiness greatly if he wasn't." 
 The words were scarcely out of iVl ait- 
 land's mouth, when Brown also burst into 
 the apartment ; and his countenance also 
 told a tale of success. He was in exube- 
 rant spirits ; and a furious shaking of 
 hands and noisy interchange of congratu- 
 lation marked the felicity of the trio ; for 
 I, too, rejoiced by sympathy in the happi- 
 ness of my friend : and, though not perso- 
 nally interested in the events of the evening, 
 was scarcely less obstreperous in my glee. 
 It was now proposed, I think by Brown, 
 that we should instanter adjourn to a cer- 
 tain well-known tavern in the city, and 
 conclude the joyous evening by a supper. 
 I, for some time, stoutly resisted this pro- 
 posal, insisting that they should remain 
 where they were, and sup with me. Would 
 to God they had complied ! — for, had 
 they done so, the fearful scene which after- 
 wards occurred would not have taken place. 
 But it was otherwise ordered. My friends 
 would not listen to my proposal of their re- 
 maiuino; with me ; and threatened, jocular- 
 ly, that, if I did not accompany them of my 
 own accord, they would carry me by force. 
 " You must come and sup with us, 
 Tom," said Maitland ; ^' you must; so 
 don't compel us to use violence. Why, 
 man, we're such happy dogs to-night, that 
 no man can with safety deny us anything." 
 Seeing it useless to make any further ob- 
 jections or resistance, I at length consent- 
 ed to accompany them ; and away, accord- 
 ingly, we went in high spirits to the tavern 
 alluded to. Supper was ordered and dis- 
 patched. A bottle of wine followed, then 
 another, and another, till it became evi- 
 dent, in the course of a few hours, that we 
 had attained a crisis, and could not possi- 
 
 bly hold out much longer. We were all, 
 in short, very tipsy ; and our mirth, par- 
 taking, of course, of the character of our 
 condition, was noisy and outrageous. 
 Feeling, at length, that we had reached a 
 consummation, and aware that the hour was 
 late (it might be about two o'clock in the 
 morning), we arose, paid our reckoning, 
 and left the house. On gaining the street, 
 we o-ave full swingr to the excitation which 
 a sense of propriety had kept somewhat 
 under while we remained in the tavern, 
 and shouted and sans; as other fools do in 
 similar circumstances ; that is, when 
 laboring under the insanity of intempe- 
 rance. In this way, we came noisily and 
 joyously along, until we arrived in front 
 of the house in which Maitland lived. It 
 was his father's, and lay directly in our way. 
 " Now, my friends," said Maitland, as 
 we were about to bid him good night, " we 
 will not part yet. My father is not at 
 home, and there's nobody in the house 
 but an old woman ; so you'll just go up 
 with me, and we'll have one single tumbler 
 before we part. I'll promise you a glass 
 of as fine old rum as ever came from Ja- 
 maica." 
 
 This proposal I met with a decided ne- 
 gative. Not so Brown : he at once closed 
 with it. 
 
 " Faith, we shall, we shall. Bob," he 
 said ; " we'll have one tumbler of your old 
 stingo. Our bachelor days are nearly at 
 a close now, and we'll see them merrily 
 out." 
 
 Saying this, he seized me by the collar 
 on one side, while Maitland did the same 
 by the other ; and thus was I forcibly 
 dragged into the house. I determined, 
 however, to drink no more, but to wait 
 patiently till my friends should think fit to 
 close the scene of their own accord. The 
 old housekeeper having been roused from 
 her bed, tumblers, glasses, and hot water 
 were soon produced ; and to these Mait- 
 land himself added a bottle of rum, which 
 he took from an adjoining closet. In a 
 few minutes my two friends had each mix- 
 
THE INTENDED BRIDEGROOMS. 
 
 315 
 
 ed up a large tumbler ; and, at their ob- 
 streperous importunities, I also mixed up 
 one ; but I resolved not to taste it ; and 
 neither did I — a dereliction which escaped 
 the notice of my companions, who, satisfied 
 by seeing me with a dose before me, forgot 
 to compel me to swallow it. This, how- 
 ever, was a proceeding which they did not 
 forget. In a very short time, both of 
 their tumblers were drained to the bottom, 
 and another couple prepared. It was at 
 this moment that I first observed a curious 
 change in the manner of Brown : he all at 
 once became strangely incoherent — an in- 
 coherence that appeared to me more like 
 that of insanity than intoxication. It is 
 true that this is a common, nay, a neces- 
 sary consequence of the latter ; and it is 
 true also that Brown had drunk quite 
 enough to account for it ; but there was a 
 peculiarity, a wildness in his incoherence, 
 that both surprised and alarmed me. He 
 did not seem to know where he was, who 
 he was with, or what he was doing. Nor 
 was this state accompanied by the physical 
 imbecility or sottish lethargy which usually 
 characterizes excessive inebriety ; on the 
 contrary, his animal energies seemed un- 
 naturally increased. He was furious, al- 
 though not ill-natured ; and his unsettled 
 eye roved about with a wild expression, 
 and with restless activity. It might be, 
 that all this was merely the efibcts of in- 
 toxication — and there can be no doubt 
 that there lay its origin ; but I had never 
 seen such efiects before from the same 
 cause. 
 
 I have already casually adverted to one 
 feature of Brown's case — his not seeming 
 to know whom he was with. This obli- 
 viousness came suddenly upon him ; for, 
 but an instant before, he had been addres- 
 sing both Maitland and I by our names. 
 In a moment after, he stared at us alter- 
 nately, with a wild and inquiring look. It 
 was evident he did not recognise us. I 
 now, by signs, called Maitland's attention 
 to the condition of our friend ; and he ac- 
 knowledged the communication, by pro- 
 
 posing, in an afibcted off-hand manner, as 
 it was now so late, and the mornins: so 
 wet (it was at this moment raining heavi- 
 ly), that we should not leave the house at 
 all, but take our beds with him. To this 
 proposal, thinking it advisable on Brown's 
 account, I at once agreed, and suggested 
 that we should retire to bed immediately. 
 Brown made no remark on his friend's 
 suggestion that he should remain all night ; 
 he neither dissented from nor approved of 
 it, but seemed quite passive, and willino" 
 to submit to any arrangement that we 
 chose to make. Taking advantage of this 
 apparent pliancy and indifference, we con- 
 ducted him to a sofa, which was in the 
 apartment, as the most convenient resting- 
 place for him ; and having desired the 
 housekeeper to bring in some bed-clothes, 
 we covered him up, and left him, as we 
 thought, snug for the remainder of the 
 night. Having thus disposed of our friend, 
 Maitland and 1 retired to bed, as did also 
 the old housekeeper ; and, in a few min- 
 utes, all was quiet in the house. I almost 
 immediately fell into a profound sleep, and 
 might have been thus for about an hour, 
 when I was suddenly awakened by a vio- 
 lent noise in the apartment in which Brown 
 was. He had got up, and was overturning 
 everything he came across in the room, 
 and shouting violently. I listened for a 
 moment, and heard him demanding to be 
 let out, and threatening the demolition of 
 everything within his reach, if he was not ; 
 and he was already acting on his threat, 
 by smashing pictures and mirrors, and 
 everything else that came into his hands 
 that he could destroy. But his great ob- 
 ject seemed to be to get out ; and he ap- 
 peared the more bent on this, that he did 
 not yet know where he was. Of this he 
 had no idea, as I perceived from his out- 
 rageous and incoherent expressions. He 
 seemed, however, to be under an impres- 
 sion that he was forcibly detained by some 
 persons ; and, conceiving himself ill-used, 
 was in a furious rage. 
 
 Alarmed at the destruction he was 
 
316 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 making, I hastily arose, and, finding my 
 way to where Maitland slept, I awoke 
 hirn ; for he was sound asleep, and had 
 heard nothing of the noise and ruin -which 
 his friend was occasioning. 
 
 " He must be let out instantly," said T, 
 " or he'll destroy everything in the room. 
 I wonder he did not find the way out him- 
 self, for I heard him working at the handle 
 of the door." 
 
 " Oh, I locked it," said Maitland, " for 
 fear he should get up through the night 
 and leave the house." Here, then, was in 
 part explained the cause of Brown's outra- 
 geous passion. He had found himself 
 locked in, and this had irritated him, and 
 inspired him with the notion of his being 
 forcibly detained. 
 
 " But we must let him out instantly," 
 said I. 
 
 " Oh, surely, surely," replied Mait- 
 land, leaping on the floor ; " but go you 
 to bed, Tom — no occasion for you disturb- 
 ing yourself; I'll pacify him in a minute 
 — and perhaps the more readily that none 
 are present but ourselves." Saying this, 
 he hurried away in his night-gown to the 
 apartment in which Brown was confined, 
 while 1 retired, as he recommended, to 
 bed, and listened for the result of Mait- 
 land's proceedings. The house was a large 
 one, with a very long passage running 
 down the centre ; and, as Brown's apart- 
 ment was at the further end, I could not 
 hear distinctly what passed ; but I was 
 surprised at a sudden cessation of all noise 
 in Brown's room, the moment Maitland's 
 footsteps approaching it by the passage 
 became audible. It seemed as if Brown 
 had become silent on discoverins; that 
 some one was moving towards him ; and 
 this perfect silence he maintained while 
 his friend was for sometime unsuccessfully 
 endeavoring to introduce the key into the 
 key-hole ; neither did he make any reply 
 to, or take any notice whatever of the ex- 
 pressions which Maitland was, from time 
 to time, addressing to him from the out- 
 side, while employed in searching for the 
 
 key-hole. I considered the circumstance 
 odd, and, without being able to account 
 for it, felt uneasy at it. At length, while 
 listening with intense anxiety for the issue, 
 1 heard the key enter the lock, I heard 
 the door opening, and, in the next instant, 
 heard — I leave the reader to imagine with 
 what sensations — the cry, uttered in a wild 
 unearthly voice, " I am murdered! I am 
 murdered !" The voice was Maitland's. 
 I leaped frantically from my bed, and 
 rushed along the passage. I met my un- 
 fortunate friend coming towards me. He 
 was starracerinf!:. " A lia'ht ! a li^ht!" he 
 exclaimed — " I am murdered ! I am mur- 
 dered, Tom !" I flew to the kitchen, 
 found a lamp burning on the hearth, 
 snatched it up, and ran again to the pas- 
 sage, when and where a sight presented it- 
 self to me, which, to this hour, fills me 
 with horror when I think c f it. Seated 
 in the middle of this passage — he had 
 been able to got no farther — I found Mait- 
 land, with both hands endeavoring to cover 
 a large wound in the lower part of his 
 body. Here was a winding up of the mer- 
 riment and joyous recklessness of the pre- 
 cedino- nif^ht ! On seeino; the horrible and 
 deplorable condition in which my unfortu- 
 nate friend was, 1 instantly ran away for 
 a suro-eon, without waitino- to excban-iije 
 words with him, or to make any inquiries 
 into the dreadful occurrence. I conceived 
 that the first thing to be done, was to pro- 
 cure him surgical assistance. 
 
 On knocking up the medical gentleman 
 whose aid I desired, and hurriedly stating 
 the case to him, ho recommended to me 
 to run instantly and call up other two of 
 the profession^ whom he named. This I 
 did ; and, in less than fifteen minutes, the 
 whole were in consultation around the 
 unhappy suff"crer. I am not myself a medi- 
 cal man, and therefore cannot describe the 
 proceedings which those who attended on 
 this occasion adopted. Indeed I was but 
 little present, being unable to endure tlis 
 horrible sight which my ill-fated friend 
 presented. He was, however, perfectly 
 
THE INTENDED BRIDEGROOMS. 
 
 317 
 
 calm and collected ; and, short as the time 
 for preparation had been, resigned to his 
 fate ; which, from the first, he believed to 
 be certain, and all but immediate death. 
 
 The surgeons having done what they 
 could for the sufi'orer, although with no 
 hope whatever of saving his life — this, 
 from the hideous nature of the wound, be- 
 ing altogether out of the question — a search 
 was instituted for the murderer ; a pro- 
 ceeding which was neither difficult nor te- 
 dious, as he was found lying quietly on the 
 sofa where the kindness of his murdered 
 friend had first laid him. Beside him, on 
 the floor, lay a large carving knife. It 
 was with this he had done the fatal deed ; 
 and it was now discovered, or rather per- 
 haps conjectured, that he had come by 
 the possession of it by accidantally over- 
 turning, or coming in contact with a^knife 
 case, which stood on a side-board in the 
 apartment. 
 
 When we first approached Brown, as he 
 lay on the sofa, he seemed to be in a kind 
 of stupor ; his eyes were open, but he ap- 
 peared to be wholly unconscious of what 
 was passing around him. One of the medi- 
 cal gentleman present now laid his hand 
 on his shoulder, and, shaking him with 
 some violence, to arouse him, asked him 
 if he knew what he had done. To this he 
 made no reply, but stared at us with a be- 
 wildered look. The question was again 
 repeated, when a confused recollection of 
 the horrid occurrence seemed to pass 
 through his mind ; for he became agitated 
 and deadly pale. To the question put to 
 him, however, he replied in the negative : 
 — " No," he said — " what have I done .?" 
 
 " You have murdered your friend, Mait- 
 land," replied one of the medical gentle- 
 men ; " you have stabbed him, mortally 
 wounded him, and, we have every reason 
 to believe, with this knife ; and he held 
 up the fatal instrument. 
 
 Brown made no reply for some time, 
 but looked earnestly at the knife, and then 
 at us, alternately. At length — 
 
 " This is dreadful,'^ he said, in a low. 
 
 hollow voice — " dreadful, dreadful, dread- 
 ful !" And he struck his hand on his 
 forehead with convulsive violence, and his 
 whole frame shook with the intensity of 
 his mental agony. 
 
 He seemed now fully alive to the hor- 
 rors of his situation, and to have a perfect 
 recollection of the shockino- occurrence 
 that had taken place. After a silence of 
 some seconds, disturbed only by the loud 
 sobbings of a difficult and strugo-lino; re- 
 spiration, he again burst out with — • 
 
 " O my God ! my God ! — what is this ? 
 But it cannot be a reality ; it is impossible ; 
 it must be some horrid dream. There 
 must be some fearful delusion somewhere. 
 I murder Robert Maitland ! / stab him 
 with a knife . — my dearest, my best friend ! 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! — nonsense — impossible, im- 
 possible ! I would st:ib myself sooner — 
 much sooner, God knows ! I would not hurt 
 a hair of his head for worlds. 7 loved him, 
 loved him most sincerely — and yet you tell 
 me I murdered him ! Base slanderers ! 
 who would believe you ? Who would be- 
 lieve so utterly improbable a story } None, 
 none. Ha ! ha ! ha ! None, none. I 
 am safe — who would believe you?" He 
 again burst out into a hysterical laugh.. 
 
 It was now evident that the unfortunate 
 young man's senses had deserted him. 
 But, whether this proceeded from an over- 
 whelming sense of the atrocity of his crime, 
 and of the dreadful situation in which he 
 stood, or was but a continuation of the 
 consequences of the preceding night's de- 
 bauch, could not be determined. It ap- 
 peared to me to proceed in part from both. 
 But, from whatever cause it proceeded, it 
 was most painful to witness ; and- it was 
 impossible to look on, or listen to the wail- 
 ino-s of the unhappy man, great as his 
 guilt was, without a feeling of compassion. 
 
 One of the medical gentlemen present 
 now made a signal to the other — the third 
 having remained by the patient — to step 
 aside with him. He did so ; and, though 
 they spoke in whispers, I overheard as 
 much as informed me that they were con- 
 
318 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 suiting as to the propriety of giving imme- 
 diate information of the occurrence to the 
 Fiscal, with a view to having Brown ap- 
 prehended ; and one of them eventually 
 undertook this duty, and was about to de- 
 part on its execution, when his attention, 
 and that of us all, was suddenly called to 
 the patient, by the medical gentleman, who 
 had remained with him, coming hastily to 
 the door of the apartment we were in, and, 
 in a hurried voice, summoning his brethren 
 to the bedside of the sufferer. He was 
 expiring. We all hastened to the cham- 
 ber of death, and were just in time to hear 
 the last words of poor Maitland. These 
 conveyed an earnest entreaty that no harm 
 should come to Brown for the occurrence 
 of that night. 
 
 " For I feel perfectly assured," said 
 the dying man, ^' that it was either done 
 altogether unintentionally, or that he 
 neither knew me nor what he was doing. 
 I am certain of that Brown would not 
 knowingly do me an injury. See, then, 
 gentlemen," he continued, " 1 entreat 
 of you, with my dying breath, that he be 
 not in any way troubled for what has hap - 
 pened. On the solemn declaration of a 
 dying man, I acquit him of all intention 
 of doing me a wilful injury." 
 
 These were the last words he uttered ; 
 but he continued to breathe for some time 
 afterwards, and the medical gentlemen 
 still remained by his bedside. 
 
 Takina; advantao-e of this interval, I stole 
 out of the apartment, and hastened'to that 
 in which Brown had been left, to warn him 
 of his danger, and to prevail upon him to 
 fly. But he was not there. 1 went to the 
 street door and found it open. Impelled 
 by a natural instinct. Brown had already 
 
 fled 
 
 and I was glad to find that he had. 
 
 On my return to the room which Mait- 
 land was, 1 was informed that he was dead. 
 His murderer, as just mentioned, had left 
 the house ; but he had not gone far : he 
 was apprehended in his father's house on 
 the following morning, and carried to jail. 
 He was subsequently brought to trial be- 
 
 fore the High Court of Justiciary ; but 
 escaped with his life, on the plea of insani- 
 ty, supported by other extenuating circum- 
 stances. What became of him afterwards 
 I could never learn, nor do 1 know to this 
 hour. The general belief was, however, 
 that he was conveyed out of the country ; 
 and this seems confirmed by the fact that 
 he was never again seen or heard of by 
 any one who knew him. I need not enter 
 into any description of the misery and deso- 
 lation with which the dreadful occurrence 
 just related overwhelmed the families of 
 the unfortunate young men, equally that 
 of the injurer as the injured, and almost 
 equally likewise those of their respective 
 biides elect. The young ladies never 
 again appeared at any place of public re- 
 sort ; one of them, the chosen of the unfor- 
 tunate Maitland, followed him to a prema- 
 ture grave ; and the other, in about two 
 years after the fatal occurrence, went 
 abroad to reside with a relative, where she 
 also shortly afterwards died. 
 
 Such, then, was the appalling termina- 
 tion to ^vhich one night of unguarded ia- 
 dulsjence brou2;ht the careers of two most 
 promising young men — hurling both, in a 
 few short hours, from the summit of human 
 felicity, the one into a premature and 
 blood-stained grave, the other into the 
 lowest depths of human misery — into a 
 situation of as utter wretchedness as the 
 human mind can perhaps conceive. 
 
 1 have but one remark to add to this 
 dismal tale ; and I leave the reader to em- 
 ploy his own reasoning on it, and to draw 
 from it his own conclusions. The excess 
 which led to the melancholy results just 
 related, was not habitual to the unfortu- 
 nate young men whose history exhibits 
 them ; on the contrary, they were remark- 
 able for the general temperance of their 
 habits, and the uniform correctness of their 
 lives. It was an indulgence excited by a 
 particular occasion, and given way to for 
 a time under peculiar circumstances and 
 feelings. If there is a lesson here, let it 
 be learned. 
 
LADY RAE. 
 
 319 
 
 LADY RAE. 
 
 During the time that Oliver Cromwell 
 was in Edinburgh, a lady called one day 
 at his lodgings and solicited an interview. 
 She was closely wrapped up in a large and 
 loose mantle, and deeply veiled. The 
 former, however, did not conceal a shape 
 of singular elegance, nor mar the light and 
 graceful carriage of the wearer. Both 
 were exceedingly striking ; and if the veil 
 performed its duty more effectually than 
 the mantle, by completely hiding the 
 countenance of the future Protector's fair 
 visitor, it was only to incite the imagina- 
 tion to invest that countenance with the 
 utmost beauty of which the " human face 
 divine " is susceptible. Nor would such 
 creation of the fancy have surpassed the 
 truth ; for the veiled fair one was, indeed, 
 " beautiful exceedingly." 
 
 On its being announced to Cromwell 
 that a lady desired an interview with him, 
 he, in some surprise, demanded who and 
 what she was. The servant could not tell. 
 She had declined to give her name, or to 
 say what was the purpose of her visit. 
 
 The Protector thought for a moment ; 
 and, as he did so, kept gazing, with a look 
 of abstraction, in the face of his valet. 
 At length — 
 
 " Admit her, Porson, admit her !" he 
 said. " The Lord sends his own messen- 
 gers in his own way ; and if we deny them, 
 he will deny us." 
 
 Porson, who was one of Cromwell's most 
 pious soldiers — for he served in the double 
 capacity of warrior and valet — stroked his 
 sleek hair down over his solemn brow, and 
 uttered a sonorous " Amen " to the un- 
 connected and unintelligible observation 
 of his master, who, it is well known, dealt 
 much in this extraordinary sort of jargon. 
 Having uttered his lugubrious Amen, 
 Porson withdrew, and, in a few minutes, 
 
 returned, conducting the lady, of whom 
 we have spoken, into the presence of 
 Cromwell. 
 
 On entering the apartment, the former 
 threw aside her veil, and discovered a 
 countenance of such surpassing beauty as 
 moved the future Protector to throw into 
 his manner an air of unwonted gallantry. 
 
 At the lady's first entrance, he was busy 
 writing ; and had merely thrown down his 
 pen when she appeared, without intending 
 to carry his courtesy any further ; but he 
 had no sooner caught a sight of the fair 
 face of his visitor, than, excited by an in- 
 voluntary impulse, he rose from his chair, 
 and advanced towards her, smiling and 
 bowing most graciously ; the latter, how- 
 ever, being by no means remarkable either 
 for its ease or its elegance. 
 
 " Pray, madam," now said Cromwell, 
 still looking the agreeable — so far as his 
 saturnine features would admit of such ex- 
 pression — ^' to what happy circumstance 
 am I indebted for the honor of this visit .?" 
 
 " The circumstance, sir, that brings me 
 here, is by no means a happy one," replied 
 the lady, in tones that thrilled even the 
 iron nerves of Oliver Cromwell. " I am 
 Lady Rae, general ; the wife of John, Lord 
 Rae, at present a prisoner in the Tolbooth 
 at Edinburgh, for his adherence to the 
 cause of the late King." 
 
 " Ah, my Lady Rae, I am sorry for 
 you; sorry for you, indeed ; but, doubt- 
 less, you have found consolation in the 
 same source whence your afflictions have 
 sprung. Truly may I reckon — indeed 
 may I, doubtless — that the Lord, who has 
 seen fit to chastise you, has also comforted 
 you under this dispensation." 
 
 " None, Sir General, who seek the aid 
 of the Almighty in a true spirit, ever seek 
 that aid in vain," replied Lady Rae; 
 
320 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " and I have been a seeker and have found ; 
 nor have I, I trust, been wanting on this 
 occasion, in a due submission to his 
 
 will." 
 
 " Truly, I hope not ; indeed do I," 
 replied Cromwell. " Then, what would 
 ye with me, fair lady } What would ye 
 with one so feeble and humble as I am ; 
 who am but as a tool, a mean instrument 
 in the hand of the artificer .?" and the 
 speaker assumed a look of the deepest 
 humility. 
 
 " I dare not utter it ! I dare not utter 
 it, general!" exclaimed Lady Rae, now 
 o-ivino- way, for the first time, to that emo- 
 tion which was agitating her whole frame, 
 although she had hitherto endeavored, and 
 not unsuccessfully, to conceal it. " I 
 dare not utter it," she said, '' lest it should 
 bring death to my hopes ; yet came I 
 hither for no other purpose." 
 
 " Speak, lady, speak," said Cromwell. 
 " What wouldst thou with me .?" 
 
 Lady Rae flung herself on her knees, 
 and exclaimed, with upraised countenance 
 and streaming eyes — 
 
 " Save my husband, general ! Restore 
 him to liberty, and to me ; and thus, on 
 my knees, shall I daily ofi"er up prayers to 
 heaven for thy safety and prosperity. O 
 refuse me not ! — refuse me not ! general — 
 as thou, thyself, hopcst for mercy from 
 thy God in the hour of retribution !" and 
 she wildly grasped the knees of the repub- 
 lican commander. 
 
 Without saying a word, Cromwell gently 
 disengaged himself from the fair suppliant, 
 and, turning his back upon her, stalked 
 to the further end of the apartment, seem- 
 ingly much agitated. 
 
 On gaining the extremity of the room, 
 Cromwell stood for two or three minutes, 
 still keeping his back to Lady Rae, with 
 arms folded, and drooping his head, as if 
 musing deeply. At the expiry of this 
 period, he suddenly turned round, and, 
 advancing towards his fair visitor, with 
 quick and hurried step, said — 
 
 " My Lady Rae, may the Lord direct 
 
 me in this matter, and in all others. I 
 have been communing with myself anent 
 your petition; truly have 1, but see not 
 that I can serve thee ; I cannot indeed. 
 If we would all walk in the straight path, 
 we had need to walk warily ; for, in this 
 matter I cannot help thee, seeing my Lord 
 Rae is a State prisoner, and I have no 
 power over him ; none, truly, none what- 
 ever. The law is strong, and may not be 
 trifled with. But I will consider, fair 
 lady, indeed will I ; I will seek direction 
 and counsel in the matter from on high. 
 I will do so this night ; 1 will have this 
 night to think of the matter, and thou wilt 
 call upon me at this hour to-morrow ; and 
 I will then see if the Lord will vouchsafe 
 me any light, as to how 1 m^ay assist thee 
 and thy poor husband ; for, on thy ac- 
 count, 1 would do so if I could." 
 
 Confused, and all but wholly unintelli- 
 gible, as was this address of Cromwell's, 
 Lady Rae perceived that it contained a 
 gleam of comfort, that a ray of hope- 
 inspiring light, however feeble, played 
 through its obscurity ; and, satisfied with 
 this, she urged her suit no further, but, 
 with a thankful acceptance of the Parlia- 
 mentary, general's invitation to her to wait 
 upon him on the following day, she with- 
 drew. 
 
 On Lady Rae's issuing from Cromwell's 
 lodgings, she stood in the street, gazing 
 around her for an instant, as if lookins; for 
 some one whom she had expected to find 
 waiting her, but who was not, at the mo- 
 ment, in sight. This was the case ; but 
 it was only for a moment that she was so 
 detained. She had glanced but two or 
 three times around her when she was 
 joined by a personage of very striking ap- 
 pearance. This was a huge Highlander, 
 considerably above six feet in stature, pro- 
 portionably stout and well made, and, ap- 
 parently, of enormous strength. He was 
 dressed, in the full costume of his country, 
 and armed to the teeth. By his side de- 
 pended a tremendous claymore ; in his 
 belt were stuck a dagger and a brace of 
 
LADY RAE. 
 
 321 
 
 pistols ; and, on his shoulder, rested that 
 formidable weapon called a Lochaber axe. 
 
 The countenance of this tremendous 
 personage was in keeping with his other 
 charms : it was manly, and decidedly 
 handsome, but, withal, was marked with 
 an expression of fierceness that was ap- 
 palling to look upon ; and was thus cal- 
 culated, when associated with his gigantic 
 figure, to inspire at once admiration andfear. 
 
 As this formidable personage approach- 
 ed Lady Rae, he touched his bonnet with 
 an air of the most profound respect, and. 
 assumed a look and attitude of devoted 
 attention to her commands. 
 
 " I have seen him, John," said Lady 
 Rae, addressing her Goliath of an attend- 
 ant, who was neither more nor less than a 
 retainer of Lord Rae''s, but one who stood 
 hish in the e-stimation of both the former 
 and latter for his fidelity, and, fierce as he 
 looked, for the gentleness of his nature. 
 John M'Kay — for such was his name — 
 was, in short, an especial favorite of both 
 Lord and Lady Rae, and was admitted to 
 a degree of confidence and familiarity that 
 elevated him much above his real condi- 
 tion. They were proud, too, of his superb 
 fio-ure, and delio-hted to exhibit him in the 
 fall dress of his country, as a specimen of 
 the men which it produced — " I have seen 
 him, John," said Lady Rae, whose pro- 
 tector and attendant John always was, 
 when she went forth on occasions of bu- 
 siness or importance like the present. 
 
 " And what he'll say, my Letty ?" in- 
 quired John, in a low and gentle tone, 
 and stopping to catch Lady Rae's com- 
 munication. 
 
 " Not much that is quite satisfactory, 
 John. He speaks in a strange style, but 
 I think there is ground of hope. He did 
 not altogether refuse the prayer of my 
 petition, but bade me call upon him again 
 to-morrow." 
 
 John looked grave, but made no reply. 
 His lady walked on, and he followed at a 
 respectful distance. 
 
 The former now directed her steps to a 
 
 VOL. II. ^^ 
 
 locality in the city with which she was but 
 too familiar, and which she had had occa- 
 sion of late but too often to frequent. This 
 was the Tolbooth — the place of her hus- 
 band's confinement. 
 
 On reaching the outer entrance to the 
 jail, the low half door, thickly studded 
 with huge-headed nails, by which it was 
 temporarily secured during the day, was 
 immediately thrown open for her admis- 
 sion by the turnkey — a little crusty-looking 
 personage in a fur cap — who had been 
 leaning over it, listlessly looking around 
 him, on her Ladyship's approach. As the 
 latter entered the prison door, the former 
 stood to one side, dofi"ed his little fur cap, 
 and respectfully wished her Ladyship a 
 good mornino:. 
 
 " How are you to-day, James .^" said 
 Lady Rae, in kindly tones ; " and how is 
 my Lord .^" 
 
 " Quite well, my Lady, quite well," 
 replied the little turnkey — extremely 
 proud, seemingly, of the condescension of 
 her Ladyship. The latter passed on, and 
 commenced threading her way through the 
 tortuous but well-known passages which 
 led to her husband's prison room. John 
 M'Kay followed his mistress into the jail, 
 previously leaving his arms at the door — 
 a condition to which he had always to 
 submit before gaining admission. Having 
 denuded himself of his weapons, John also 
 passed on, but not before he had shaken 
 his fist ominously in the face of the little 
 jailer. This was John's constant practice, 
 every time he entered the prison; and, 
 simple as the act was, it had a good deal 
 of meaning. It meant, in the first place, | 
 that John associated the misfortune of his 
 master's confinement with the little turn- 
 key's employment : that he considered 
 him as aiding and abetting in the same. 
 It further meant, that if it were not for 
 one thin<Tf more than another, or, as John 
 himself would have expressed it, " for ted- 
 der things more nor ones," he would have 
 brought his Lochaber axe and the turn- 
 key's head into more intimate contact. 
 
322 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ]n the meantime, Ladj Rae having as- 
 cended seve.al flights of dark and narrow 
 stairs, and traversed several passages of a 
 similar description, had arrived at a par- 
 ticular door, on either side of which stood 
 a grenadier, with shouldered musket, and 
 bayonet fixed. They were the guards 
 placed upon her husband, who occupied 
 the apartment which they sentinelled. 
 
 The soldiers, who had orders to admit 
 her Ladyship and attendant to the prisoner, 
 at any time between the hours of nine in 
 the morning and seven at night, offered no 
 hindrance to her approaching the door and 
 rapping for admittance. This, she now 
 did, and the " who's there .^" of the cap- 
 tive was replied to, in a powerfully Celtic 
 accent, by John M'Kay, with — " My 
 Letty Ras, my Lort." The door instantly 
 flew open, and its inmate came forth, with 
 a smiling and delightful countenance, to 
 receive his beautiful and faithful wife. 
 
 ]n the meantime, John M'Kay took his 
 station on the outside of the door — a more 
 friendly guard over the inmates of the 
 apartment to which it conducted, than 
 those who stood on either side of him. 
 Here the same feeling which had dictated 
 John's significant hint to the turnkey be- 
 low, suggested his general bearing and 
 particular manner to the two soldiers now 
 beside him. 
 
 Maintaining a profound and contemptu- 
 ous silence, he strutted up and down the 
 passage — without going, however, more 
 than two or three yards either way — in 
 front of the door of his Lordship's apart- 
 ment, keeping his huge form proudly erect, 
 as he thus paced the short walk to which 
 he had limited himself, and casting, every 
 now and then, a look of fierce defiance on 
 the appalled soldiers, who looked with fear 
 and dread on the chafed lion with whom 
 they found themselves thus unpleasantly 
 caged, and who seemed every moment as 
 if he would spring upon and tear them to 
 pieces ; and, in truth, little provocation 
 would it have taken to have brought John 
 M'Kay's huge fists into play about their 
 
 heads. There can be no doubt, that there 
 was nothing at that moment which would 
 have given John more satisfaction than 
 their afibrdin2 him an excuse for attacking 
 them. This, however, the soldiers, care- 
 fully avoided ; and, not content with re- 
 fraining from giving the slightest off"ence, 
 either in word, look, or deed, endeavored 
 to conciliate John by an attempt to lead 
 him into friendly conversation. But the 
 attempt was in vain. Their advances 
 were all repelled, either with silent eon- 
 tempt, or with a gruff uncourteous re- 
 sponse. A specimen of the conversation 
 which did take place, between M'Kay and 
 the guards, may be given : — 
 
 " Delightful day, friend I" said one of 
 the soldiers. 
 
 " S'pose it is !" replied John, sternly, 
 and continuing his walk. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Anything new in the town to day .-" 
 at lencrth said the other soldier. 
 
 " S'pose something new every tay !" re- 
 plied John, gruffly. 
 
 " Ay, ay, I dare say ; but have you any- 
 thin"; new to tell us .^" 
 
 *' Maype 1 have !" said John with a 
 grim smile. 
 
 ^' What is it .?" 
 
 " Tat I'll knock your tarn thick head 
 against tat wall, if you'll pe hotter me wi' 
 any more o' your tarn nonsense. Tat's 
 news for you !" and John gave one of 
 those peculiar Celtic grunts, which no com- 
 bination of letters can express. " And 
 you, you scarecrow-looking rascal," he 
 continued, addressing the other sentinel, 
 " if you'll spoke anoder word, FU cram 
 my sporran doon your tam troat." 
 
 Havino; delivered himself of these friend- 
 ly addresses, John resumed his march, with 
 additional pride of step and bearing. In 
 a minute after, he was summoned into 
 Lord Rae's apartment, where he remained 
 until Lady Rae left the prison, which she 
 did in a short time afterwards. 
 
 It was with a beating heart and anxious 
 mind that Lady Rae wended her way, on 
 
LADY RAE. 
 
 323 
 
 the following day — attended, as usual, by 
 her gigantic serving-man — to the lodgings 
 of Oliver Cromwell. On reachino- the 
 house, M'Kay took his station, as on a 
 former occasion, on the outside ; while her 
 Ladyship advanced towards the door, 
 "within which she speedily disappeared, 
 her admittance having been more prompt 
 on the present visit than the former. 
 
 In an instant after Lady Rae was again 
 iu the presence of Oliver Cromwell. As, 
 on the former occasion, he was employed 
 in writinor when she entered, and as on that 
 occasion so, also, he threw down his pen, 
 and rose to receive her. 
 
 " Anent this matter of yours, my La- 
 dy," began Cromwell, abruptly, and with- 
 out any previous salutation — although he 
 looked all civility and kindness — " I really 
 hardly know what to say ; truly do I not ; 
 but the Lord directs all, and he "will gui'de ' 
 us in this thing also." 
 
 " I trust so !" interrupted Lady Rae, 
 meekly. 
 
 " Yes," resumed the future Protector 
 of England ; " for we are but weak crea- 
 tures, short-sighted and erring. But, in- 
 deed, as I told you before, my Lady, your 
 husband is a State prisoner ; truly is he, 
 and, therefore, may I not interfere with 
 him. I cannot ; i have not the power. 
 Yet would I serve thee if I could ; truly 
 would I with great pleasure. But these, you 
 see, are strange times, in which all men must 
 walk warily, for we are beset with enemies, 
 ■with traitors ; deceivers on all sides, men 
 who fear not the Lord. Yet, for this matter 
 of yours, my Lady Rae, 1 will tell you ; 1 
 cannot take your husband from prison ; it 
 should be unseemly in the sight of all God- 
 fearing men ; but, truly, if you could in any 
 way manage to get his Lordship once with- 
 out the prison walls, I would take upon me 
 to prevent his being further troubled. He 
 should have a protection under my hand ; 
 truly he should, although it might bring 
 me to some odium with my friends. But 
 he should have it, nevertheless, out of my 
 respect for you, my Lady. Now, go, go 
 
 my Lady ; I may say no more on the sub- 
 ject. Go, try and fall on some means of 
 getting thy husband without the walls of 
 his prison ; this done, come instantly to 
 me, and thou shalt have a protection for 
 him under my hand ; indeed thou shalt." 
 
 To Lady Rae, this proposal was a 
 grievous disappointment. It contained 
 an arrangement which she had never con- 
 templated, and which seemed as impracti- 
 cable as it was strange ; yet she saw it 
 was all she had to expect, and that what- 
 ever might be the result, she must be con- 
 tent with the extent of interference on her 
 husband''s behalf, which was included in 
 the singular measure suggested by Crom- 
 well. 
 
 Impressed witK this conviction, Lady 
 Rae thanked him for his kindness, said 
 she would endeavor to get her husband 
 without the prison gates by some means 
 or other, and would then again wait upon 
 him for the protection he was so generous 
 as to offer. 
 
 " Do so, my Lady, do so," said Crom- 
 well, escorting her Ladyship to the door 
 with an air of great gallantry ; " and may 
 the Lord have thee in his holy keeping." 
 
 Lady Rae turned round, again thanked 
 the general, courtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 On reaching the street, her Ladyship 
 was instantly joined by her faithful attend- 
 ant, M'Kay, who had been waiting with 
 the greatest anxiety and impatience for 
 her return ; for to him his master's life 
 and liberty were dearer far than his own, 
 and he well knew that both were much in 
 the power of the extraordinary man on 
 whom his Lady was now waiting. 
 
 On the first glance which he obtained 
 of his mistress's countenance, John saw 
 with a feeling of disappointment that 
 leno-thened his own several inches that the 
 interview had not been a satisfactory one. 
 His native sense of politeness, however, 
 and of the deference due to his mistress, 
 prevented him making any inquiries as to 
 what had passed until she should herself 
 choose to communicate with him on the 
 
324 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 subject. For such communication, how- 
 ever, he had longer to wait than usual ; 
 for, lost in thought and depressed with 
 disappointment, Lady Rae walked on a 
 good way without taking any notice what- 
 ever of her attendant, who was following 
 at a distance of several yards. At length, 
 she suddenly stopped, but without turning 
 round. This John knew to be the signal 
 for him to advance. He accordingly did 
 so, and, touching his bonnet, waited for 
 the communication which it promised. 
 
 " I am afraid, John," now said Lady 
 Rae — " I am afraid we shall be disappoint- 
 ed, after all. The general has made the 
 strangest proposal you ever heard. He 
 says that he cannot, without compromising 
 himself, or to that effect, liberate his Lord- 
 ship from jail ; but that if he were once 
 out — that is, if he could be got out by any 
 means — he would save him from being fur- 
 ther troubled, and would grant him a pro- 
 tection under his own hand. But how on 
 earth are we to get him out ? It is im- 
 possible. These two guards at the door, 
 be-sides other difficulties, render it alto- 
 gether impracticable. I know not what is 
 to be done." 
 
 It was some seconds before M'Kay made 
 any reply. At length — 
 
 " I'll no think ta diffaculty fery crate, 
 after- all, my Letty," replied John. 
 " There's shust ta bodachan at ta dore, 
 I could put in my sporran, and ta twa 
 
 so O'er. 
 
 »7 
 
 " Yes, John ; the first you might, per- 
 haps, manage," said Lady Rae, smiling, 
 and glancing unconsciously at the huge 
 figure of her attendant, which presented so 
 striking a contrast to that of the little, slim, 
 crusty turnkey ; " but the two soldiers — " 
 
 " Whoich," exclaimed John, contempt- 
 uously ; " if 's no far prettier men than 
 was there yesterday, it'll no trouble me 
 much to manage them too, my Letty. A 
 wee bit clamshcuchar wi' my Lochapcr 
 axe, or a brog wi' myskean dhu, will make 
 them quate aneuch, my Letty. Tat's but 
 a small shob." 
 
 " John, John, no violence, no violence f" 
 exclaimed Lady Rae, in great alarm, at 
 the sanguinary view of the process for her 
 husband's liberation which John had ta- 
 ken. " No violence. If his Lordship's 
 liberation be attempted at all, there must 
 be no violence ; at least none to the shed- 
 dinoj of blood, or to the inflictin2 the 
 smallest injury on any one. The idea is 
 horrible ; and if acted on, would only make 
 matters worse. Your own life, John, 
 would be the forfeit of such an atrocious 
 proceeding." 
 
 " Foich, a figs for that, my Letty, beg- 
 gin your Lettyship's pardon," replied 
 John, a good deal disappointed at the 
 peaceful tone of his mistress, and at the 
 loss of an opportunity, such as he had long 
 desired, of taking vengeance on his mas- 
 ter's guards and jailors. 
 
 " Foich, a figs for tat, my Letty, beggin 
 your Lettyship's pardon," he said. " I 
 could teuk to the hills in a moment's no- 
 tice, and see who'll catch John M'Kay 
 then.'' 
 
 " Well, well, perhaps, John, you mighty 
 but you must speak no more of violence ; 
 I charge you, speak no more of it. We 
 will, in the meantime, go to his Lordship 
 and submit the matter to him., and be 
 guided, thereafter, by his advice." 
 
 Having said this. Lady Rae directed 
 her steps to the jail, and, closely fol- 
 lowed by M'Kay, was soon after in the 
 apartment of the prisoner. 
 
 Lord Rae having been a.pprised, by his 
 lady, of the result of her interview with 
 Cromwell, a secret consultation between 
 the two, which lasted nearly an hour, en- 
 sued. 
 
 During this consultation, many differ- 
 ent plans, for effecting the liberation of 
 the prisoner, were suggested, and, after 
 being duly weighed, abandoned as imprac- 
 ticable. One at length, however, was 
 adopted, and this one was proposed by 
 M'Kay ; it was characteristic of the man, 
 and came as close in its nature to his origi- 
 nal one as he durst presume upon. 
 
LADY RAE. 
 
 325 
 
 This plan, wliicli was a Bimple enough 
 one, was, to seizo the two guards at the 
 ou'side of the door, and hold them fast 
 until Lord Rae should have rushed past 
 them, and got out of the prison. The 
 turnkey at the outer door, who, as has 
 been already said, was a little slender inan, 
 his Lordship was to seize, and throw down, 
 and then get over the little half door, which 
 was under his guardianship, the best way he 
 could. A row of short, sharp spikes, 
 however, with which it was fenced on its 
 upper edge, rendered this a formidable 
 difficulty ; but it was thought that it might, 
 to speak literally, be got over, by the aid 
 of a long form which stood on the side of 
 the passage of the jail, for the accommo- 
 dation of visitors. 
 
 All this trouble a touch of the key 
 would have saved, but this, the little man 
 always carried in his pocket, never allow- 
 ius; it to remain in the lock an instant, 
 however fre(|uent or numerous his visitors 
 mio'ht be. 
 
 The securino; of the two cruards at the 
 prisoner's door, by far the most serious 
 part of the business, M'Kaj^ took upon 
 himself, and with a degree of confidence 
 that sufficiently showed how well he was 
 aware of his own surpassing strength. 
 
 This plan of proceedings arranged, it 
 was resolved that it should be put in exe- 
 cution that very afternoon. On that after- 
 noon, accordingly, John M'Kay again ap- 
 peared at the jail door, demanding admit- 
 tance to his master. The door was 
 immediately thrown open to him by the 
 little turnkey, whom he now, for the first 
 time addressed in a friendly tone. 
 
 The same chancre of manner marked his 
 salutation to the guards at the door of his 
 master's apartment. To these he spoke 
 in the ra^st civil and obliging terms f)Ossi- 
 ble. TM men, who had often winced un- 
 der his savage growls and fierce looks, 
 wondered at the change, but were glad 
 enough to meet with it, in place of his for- 
 mer ferocity. 
 
 John, after talking for a few minutes 
 
 with the sentinels, Went into his Lordship's 
 room. The latter was dressed, and ready 
 for the bold proceeding about to be adopt- 
 ed. 
 
 " Think you, you can manage them, 
 Jolml" said his Lordship in a whisper, 
 after the door had been secured in the in- 
 side. 
 
 *' Pooch a dizzen o' them, my Lort!" 
 replied M'Kay, ih the same under-tone. 
 It's twa bits o' shachlin podies no wors 
 speakin aboot." 
 
 " But they are armed, John ; they have 
 guns and bayonets, and the former are 
 loaded." 
 
 " Fooch, their guns! Nvhat'U sicknify 
 their guns, my Lort, when I'll have cot a 
 hold o' the cratursthemsels,inmy hants.'" 
 and he held out his enormous brown paws 
 as if to certify their power. "I'll crush 
 the podies like a mussel shells." 
 
 " No violence, John, remember," said 
 Lord Rae, energetically, but smiling as 
 he spoke ; " that is, to the extent of doing 
 the men any, the smallest, personal injury. 
 Remember, now, John ; do otherwise," 
 continued his Lordship, in a more severe 
 tone, " and you forfeit my favor and es- 
 teem forever. Mark, John, besides," 
 add6d his Lordship, who seemed most 
 anJiioiis on the point which he was now 
 pressing on M'Kay's consideration, " your 
 doing any injury to these men would be 
 destruction to me ; for, under such cir- 
 cumstances, the general would not grant 
 me a protection after I was out, and my 
 case would, otherwise, be rendered infi- 
 nitely worse, and more hopeless than it is. 
 Now, remember all this, John, and do the 
 men no personal injury, I charge you." 
 
 John's face reddened a little at the ear- 
 nestness with which these injunctions were 
 delivered ; and, probably, he thought they 
 indicated something like degeneracy in his 
 chief; but he promised compliance with 
 his commands ; and, to render his obedi- 
 ence more certain, by lessoning the tempta- 
 tion to infringe them, he denuded himself 
 of a concealed dirk, which he always car- 
 
32G 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ried about him, over and above the arms \ 
 he openly wore. Of this proceeding, which j 
 was voluntary on McKay's part, his raas- i 
 ter hi-hly approved, but, smiling, said— 
 
 " You have still your fists, John, nearly , 
 as dangerous weapons as that you have 
 just laid aside ; but 1 hope you will use 
 them sparingly." 
 
 John smiled, and promised he would. 
 In a few minutes afterwards, M'Kay 
 came forth from Lord Rae's apartment to 
 perform the daring feat of securing two 
 armed men by the mere force of physical 
 strength ; for he was now without weapon 
 of any kind. When he came out, however, 
 it was with an appearance of the most 
 friendly feeling towards the soldiers. He 
 came out smiling graciously, and he enter- 
 ed into familiar chat with the men, alleg- 
 ing that he came to put off the time till 
 his master had written a letter, which he 
 was to deliver to a person in town. 
 
 Thrown off their guard, by M'Kay's 
 jocular and cordial manner, the soldiers 
 grounded their muskets, and began to en- 
 ter, in earnest, into conversation which he 
 was promoting. M Kay, in the mean- 
 time, was watching his opportunity to 
 seize them ; but this, as it was necessary 
 he should be placed, with regard to them, 
 so as to have one on either side of him, 
 that he might grasp both at the same in- 
 stant, he did not obtain for some time. 
 
 By dint, however, of some exceedingly 
 cautious and wary manoeuvring, IVrKay at 
 length found himself in a position favora- 
 ble to his meditated proceedings. On 
 doing so, he, with the speed and force of 
 li'ditniuir, darted an arm out on either side 
 of him, seized a soldier by the breast with 
 each hand, and with as much ease as a pow- 
 erful dog could turn over a kitten, laid 
 them both gently on their backs on the 
 floor of the passage, where he lield them 
 extended at full length, and immovable in 
 his tremendous grasp, till he felt assured 
 that Lord Rae had cleared the prison. 
 This the latter effected with the most per- 
 fect success. The moment M'Kay seized 
 
 the soldiers — an act of which Lord Rae 
 was apprised by the former's calling out, 
 '' Noo, noo, my Lort" — he rushed out, 
 ran along the passage, descended the stair 
 in three or four leaps, came upon the lit- 
 tle turnkey unawares, as he was lookincr 
 over the half door of the prison entrance 
 — his sole occupation during three fourths 
 of the day — seized him by the neck of the 
 coat behind — laid him down, as M'Kay 
 had done by the soldiers, at his full length 
 — no great length after all — on the floor 
 — drew the form to the door — placed it 
 over the little turnkey in such a way as to 
 prevent his rising — jumped on it — leapt 
 into the street at one bound, and instantly 
 disappeared. All this was done in the 
 tenth jDart of the time that it has been ta- 
 ken to relate it. It was, in truth, the 
 work of but a moment. 
 
 On being satisfied that Lord Rae had 
 made his escape. 
 
 " Noo, lads, ye may got up,*" said 
 M'Kay, loosening his hold of the men, and 
 starting himself to his feet. " Ta burd's 
 flown ; but ye may look after ta cage, and 
 see tat no more o' your canaries got 
 awav." 
 
 Freed from the powerful grasp which 
 had hitherto pinned them to the floor, the, 
 soldiers sprung to their feet, and endea- 
 vored to get hold of their muskets. Seeing 
 this, M'Kay again seized them, and again 
 threw them to the floor ; but, on this oc- 
 casion, it was merely to show the power 
 he had over them, if they should still have 
 any doubt of it. 
 
 '' Noo, lads, I'll tell you what it is," 
 said M'Kay, addressing the prostrate sol- 
 diers—" if you'll behave yoursels deseuly, 
 and no be botherin me wi' ony more o' 
 your tarn nonsense, I'll aloo you to make 
 me your prisoner ; for Tm not intending 
 to run away ; Til kive myself up to save 
 your hides, and take my shance of ta law 
 for what I'll do. Tat's my mind of it, 
 lads. If you like to acree to it, goot and 
 well ; if not, I will knock your two heads 
 togidder, till your prains go into smash," 
 
LADY RAE. 
 
 3-27 
 
 But too liappy to accept of such terms, 
 the soldiers at once assented to them ; and 
 on their doing so, were permitted once 
 more to resume their legs, when M'Kay 
 peaceably yielded himself their prisoner. 
 The gigantic Highlander could easily have 
 effected his own escape ; but he could not 
 have done so without having; recourse to 
 that violence which had been so anxious- 
 ly deprecated by both his master and mis- 
 tress. Without inflicting!; some mortal in- 
 jury on the soldiers, he could not have 
 prevented them from pursuing him when 
 he had fled, and probably firing on him 
 as he did so. Ail this, therefore, had 
 been provided for by the arrangements 
 previously agreed upon by Lord Rae and 
 his retainer. By these it was settled, that 
 he should, on the former's making his es- 
 cap e , p eaceably yield himself up to ' ' unde r- 
 lie the law," in a reliance on the friendly 
 disposition of Cromwell towards the fugi- 
 tive, which, it was not doubted, would be 
 exerted in behalf of his servant. Such 
 proceeding, it was thought too would bring 
 Lord Rae's case sooner to issue ; and be, 
 with regard to the law, as it were, throw- 
 ing a bone in the dog's way to arrest his 
 attention, and interrupt his pursuit of the 
 original, and more important object of his 
 vengeance. 
 
 On delivering himself up, M'Kay was 
 immediately placed in confinement, and 
 shortly after brought to trial, for aiding 
 and abetting in the escape of a State 
 prisoner. The trial wafS-.a very brief one ; 
 for the facts were easily established, and 
 sentence was about to be passed on the 
 prisoner, when a stir suddenly arose at the 
 court door. The presiding judge paused. 
 The stir increased. In the next instant 
 it was hushed ; and in that instant Crom- 
 well entered the court. On advancing a 
 pace or tsvo within the apartment, ho took 
 off his hat, bowed respectfully to the 
 
 judges, and proceeding onwards, finally 
 ascended the bench and took his seat be- 
 side them. 
 
 When a man feels himself master, he 
 need be under no great ceremony, neither 
 need he trouble himself much about forms 
 or rules which regulate the conduct of in- 
 feriors. Cromwell, on this occasion, got 
 up in a few minutes after he had taken his 
 place, and delivered to the court, a long, 
 and, after his usual fashion, obscure and 
 unconnected oration, in favor of the pri- 
 soner at the bar. The chief ground, how- 
 ever, on which he rested his defence and 
 exculpation of M'Kay, was the fidelity to 
 his master, which the crime with which 
 he was charged implied, and the worse ef- 
 fect to the cause of morality than good to 
 the political interests of the State, which 
 the infliction of any punishment in such 
 case would produce. " if," concluded 
 Cromwell, " fidelity to a master is to be 
 punished as a crim.e, where shall we look 
 for honest servants." 
 
 The reasoning of Cromwell, even had 
 it been less cogent than it was, could not 
 be but convincing to those who knew of 
 and dreaded his power. He was listened 
 to with the most profound attention, and 
 the justness of his arguments and force of 
 his eloquence acknowledged by the acquit- 
 tal of the prisoner. 
 
 As M'Kay rose from his seat at the 
 bar to leave the court. Cromwell eyed him 
 attentively for some seconds, and struck 
 with his prodigious size and fierce aspect, 
 whispered to one of the judges near him : 
 — " May the Lord keep me from the 
 devil's and that man's gTasp." 
 
 We have now only to add, that the 
 protection promised by Cromwell to Lady 
 Rae for her# husband was duly made out 
 and delivered to her. We need not say 
 that it was found to be a perfectly efficient 
 document. 
 
328 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 A BITING EVIDENCE. 
 
 It has often been remarked that crimes 
 are discovered in strange ways. The in- 
 stances on record are, indeed, so numer- 
 ous, that the moralist stands in no need of 
 any assistance from us to enable him to 
 give his lesson to the workers of iniquity. 
 Yet we may aid the good cause to which 
 our efforts have always been directed, by 
 giving an example, perhaps as curious as 
 any that has been recorded, of the singu- 
 lar ways by which the eternal laws of 
 right are often vindicated, though we claim 
 at the same time, an exemption, in the 
 present instance, from the gravity that is 
 generally reputed to belong to moral 
 teachers. 
 
 Those who have lived all their lives in 
 large towns, and who are, consequently, 
 accustomed to rumors of robberies, lar- 
 cenies, and all sorts of illegal appropria- 
 tion of property, can form no idea of the 
 dreadful stir which the burglarious en- 
 trance of some person or persons unknown 
 into the premises of William Ritchie, far- 
 mer, Searig, created in the adjoining vil- 
 lage of Cranstoun. It was tremendous. 
 The honest and simple villagers stood 
 aghast at the appalling relation, and won- 
 dered at the enormous wickedness. 
 
 The robbery- had been committed dur- 
 ing the night. It was an outhouse that 
 had been entered, and the articles ab- 
 stracted were, a quantity of linen, several 
 cheeses, and an entire barrel of excellent 
 salt beef, which the lawful owner thereof, 
 little dreaming of what was to happen, 
 had laid up for winter store ; and often 
 had William Ritchie, since he drove the 
 last hoop that secured the head of the said 
 barrel (for William had coopered it up 
 with his own hands) — often, we say, had 
 he, since that period, revelled in imagin- 
 ation on the savory and nutritious feeds of 
 
 beef and greens which he fondly hoped 
 he had secured. Often had his mental 
 vision dwelt with rapture on the sappy 
 rounds embedded in their vegetable ac- 
 companiment smoking deliciously on the 
 board ; often had the same peep into fu- 
 turity presented William Ritchie (for 
 William Ritchie liked a good dinner with 
 great sincerity of affection) with distinct 
 simulations of the carving knife entering 
 the said rounds, and severinu; therefrom 
 thick, juicy slices of well proportioned fat 
 
 and lean. Often But where is the use 
 
 of enlarging on all the beatific visions 
 which the lost barrel of beef, before it was 
 lost, summoned up before the mind's eye 
 of William Ritchie. Let us rather pro- 
 ceed with our story, leaving it to the read- 
 er to mark, with the sympathy which the 
 circumstance demands, the ruin, the utter 
 prostration of all William's hopes, as re- 
 garded his salted provender, of which this 
 nefarious robbery was the cause. 
 
 It was a good while after the perpetra- 
 tion of the burglary and theft before the 
 slightest clue could be obtained to the dis- 
 covery of the perpetrator. One or two, 
 indeed were suspected, but they were so 
 more on the general ground of their being 
 habit and repute loose fish, than from any 
 particular indications of their guilt in the 
 special case of the robbery of William Rit- 
 chie's outhouse. 
 
 So long, indeed, was it before any trace 
 of the perpetrator of this offence could be 
 discovered, that people were beginning to 
 abandon all hopes of its ever being made 
 out. It is curious, however, to mark 
 how strangely things sometimes come | 
 round. i 
 
 About two months after the robbery in 
 question, William Ritchie had occasion to 
 call one day on a certain Mr. John John- 
 
A BITING EVIDENCE. 
 
 329 
 
 stone who kept a grocery shop in the vil- 
 la2;e of CraDstomi. It was to order some 
 tea and sugar — Mr. Ritchie being a cus- 
 tomer of Mr. Johnstone'Sj and one of the 
 best he had. 
 
 " Ony word yet, 'hh. Ritchie," said the 
 shopkeeper, after the first greetiligs had 
 passed between himself and the former — 
 " ony word yet o' your late visitors .^" 
 
 Mr. Ritchie shook his head, and, with a 
 melancholy smile, replied — • 
 
 " No, nae word yet ; and, I fancy, there 
 never v/ill be noo." 
 
 " No quite sure o' that," said Mr. 
 Johnstone, with a look of peculiar and 
 somewhat m3^sterious intelligence. " Was 
 the barrel o' saut beef they took frae ye a 
 gey big ane .' As muckle as wad keep a 
 sma' family chowin for sax weeks or 
 sae .■^" 
 
 " I daur say it micht," replied William 
 Ritchie, with a sigh," if they warna a' the 
 greedier on't." 
 
 " Just sae," said Mr. Johnstone, with 
 the same expression of latent meaning ; 
 and, in the next moment — " Will ye ste^D 
 ben the way a minat, Mr. Ritchie. I 
 want to speak to ye." And he led the 
 way to a back apartment, followed by his 
 customer. 
 
 On reaching this retreat, Mr. Johnstone 
 carefully shut the door, and advancing, 
 almost on tiptoe, to Mr. Ritchie, said, in 
 a half vvhisper : — 
 
 '• I'll tell ye, William, what I was want- 
 ing to say to ye. If I'm nat greatly mis- 
 taen," continued Johnstone — and now 
 adding to the force of the mysterious ex- 
 pression of countenance formerly alluded 
 to, by placing his forefinger significantly 
 on the side of his nose — " If I'm no o;reat- 
 ly mistaen, I hae gotten an inklin o' wha 
 it was that broke into your premises." 
 
 " No !" exclaimed William Ritchie, 
 with a look of intense iuLerest. '' Wha 
 are they .^" 
 
 '• What wad ye think if it were Raggit 
 Rab ?" 
 
 '' That it wasna the least unlikely," re- 
 
 plied William Ritchie. " Twa or three 
 hae suspeckit him, and mysel amang the 
 the lave ; but nae mair could be made o't. 
 Hoo come ye to be sae sure he's the ma^n, 
 John .'" 
 
 " Isna mustard a fine thing to a bit saut 
 beef .'^" rejoined John Johnstone, with an- 
 other of his deep intelligent looks. 
 
 " Nae doot o't," said William Ritchie, 
 surpri-sed at the oddness and apparent ir- 
 relevancy of the remark. " But what o' 
 that .?" 
 
 " ril tell ye what o' that, William," 
 replied Mr. Johnstone. " I've noticed 
 that ever since your premises war broken 
 into, Rab has bocht mair mustard frae me 
 than he ever did in the hale course o' his 
 life before. There's no a day noo, but 
 ane o' his weans is here for a pennyworth ;" 
 and John Johnson looked triumphantly at 
 William Ritchie, 
 
 The latter said nothing for a few se- 
 conds, but at leagth remarked, that it was 
 a queer aneuch circumstance,, and looked 
 geyin suspicious. But added, that it was 
 a new way o' makin out a charge o', rob- 
 bery. 
 
 " It may be sae," replied Johnstone ; 
 " but I think it pretty conclusive evidence, 
 for a' that." 
 
 "it wad be a funny aneuch circum- 
 stance," Sctid William Ritchie, smiling, 
 " to detect a thief throusrh the medium o^ 
 mustard. There wad be novelty in't, at 
 ony rate." 
 
 " Faith, Tm sae convinced o't, I wad 
 hae ye try't, William," said Mr. Johnstone. 
 " Gie ye lang Jamie the messenger the 
 hint, and let him search Rob's huose in- 
 continently, and, ril wad a firkin o' but- 
 ter to a far din cannle, tliat ye '11 fin some- 
 thino- there that Rab Borland '11 no ba 
 very weel able to account for." 
 
 Notwithstanding the confidence Mr. 
 Johnstone evinced in the accuracy of his 
 conjectures regarding the guilt -of the per- 
 sonage above-named, William Ritchie 
 could not help thinking, as indeed, he had 
 said, that the mustard formed rather a 
 
330 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS 
 
 strange ground of proceeding in a case of j 
 criminal dereliction ; still, as Robert was a 
 gentleman of very indifferent reputation 
 in that part of the country, and in one or 
 two other places besides, perhaps he 
 thouo-hi there could be neither great harm 
 nor risk in adopting the process recom- 
 mended by his friend, Johnstone. 
 
 Being of this opinion, Mr. Ritchie im- 
 mediately proceeded to seek out the legal 
 functionary before alluded to — namely, 
 James Rathbone, or Lang Jamie, as he 
 was more familiarly called ; this soubri- 
 quet being highly descriptive of the per- 
 sonal conformation of the worthy in ques- 
 tion, whose legs were of prodigious length, 
 but not with body corresponding. Indeed, 
 so marked was the discrepancy here — that 
 is, between the lenirth of Jamie's lesis and 
 his body — that although he stood six feet 
 three on his stocking soles, he was found 
 too short for admission into a dragoon re- 
 giment, to which he, on one occasion, 
 made offer of his services ; for, being all 
 legs, he sunk down nearly to his neck on 
 the saddle when mounted on horseback, 
 and thus presented no superstructure 
 worth counting upon. Jamie, in short, so 
 far as appearance went, was merely a pair 
 of animated tono;s. But this is somethinsi; 
 of a digression. 
 
 William Ritchie havins; sought out Lang 
 Jamie, whom he found in the act of writ- 
 ing out some summonses against certain 
 defaulters in Cranstoun, thus cautiously 
 opened the business of his call. 
 
 " Ony word yet, Jamie, o' the depreda- 
 turs .?" Jamie had been previously em- 
 ployed in the matter to which this ques- 
 tion referred. 
 
 " No ; nae scent o' them yet," replied 
 Jamie. " But Pm keepin a sharp look 
 oot, and houp to hae some o' them by the 
 cuff o' the neck before lang." 
 
 " Hae ye nae idea wha they could be, 
 Jamie .?" again inquired William Ritchie. 
 
 " Maybe 1 hae, and maybe I haena," 
 replied the former. " It's no safe speakin, 
 ye ken, anent thae things. There's yevi- \ 
 
 dence wanted, Mr. Ritchie — strong steeve 
 yevidence ; or, at least, weel-giounded 
 suspicion, to allow o' a man openin his 
 mind on thae subjects wi' perfect safety." 
 
 *' Bootless, dootless," said William Rit- 
 chie ; " but if there war now onythiug like 
 fair and reasonable grounds o' suspicion 
 against ony body, wad ye act, Jamie, and 
 proceed thereon as the law directs .'" 
 
 " Undootedly, I wad nab them at 
 ance," replied Jamie. 
 
 " Just sae," said William Ritchie. 
 ^' Weel then, if a certain person bocht an 
 unusual quantity o' mustard within a cer- 
 tain time, what wad ye infer frae that, 
 Jamie .^" 
 
 " I wad infer frae that, that he Hkit it. 
 That's a','' said Jamie. 
 
 " But folk dinna usually eat mustard its 
 lane," rejoined William Ritchie ; " they 
 maun hae something till't. Noo, what's 
 the maist likely thing that they wad eat it 
 wi' in this, or in onv ither similar case .''" 
 
 *' 1 dinna ken, I'm sure," said Jamie, 
 musingly. ^' Maybe a bit saut fish, or 
 something o that kind." 
 
 " What wad ye think o' a bit saut beef.'" 
 inquired Ritchie. 
 
 " Very guid," said Jamie. *' Just an 
 excellent association. Sautbeef and mus- 
 tard ;" and he licked his lips, as he thought 
 of the condiment thus accompanied. 
 
 '^ Weel then," continued William Rit- 
 chie, " micht ye no infer, think ye, frae 
 this extraordinary consumption o' mustard, 
 that the consumer had a comfortable sup- 
 ply o' saut beef in his larder P'' 
 
 " The inference, I think, wad be fair 
 aneuch," said Jamie ; " at least there wad, 
 certainly, be strong probability o' the 
 fact." 
 
 " I think sae," rejoined William. 
 " Then, keepin in mind that I lost a bar- 
 rel o' saut beef, what wad ye think if Rob 
 Borland sent every day since syne to John- 
 ny Johnstone's shop for a pennyworth o' 
 mustard .^" 
 
 " I wad think it a gey suspicious lookin 
 thing, surely," replied Jamie ; " and wad 
 
A BITING EVIDENCE. 
 
 331 
 
 conclude that Borland and your beef, Mr. 
 Ritchie, were on rather owre intimate a 
 footin. It wad, indeed, I confess, be 
 rather a queer sort o' proof to go on ; but " 
 feth, there's something in't. Can ye in- 
 struct as to the mustard r" 
 
 " 'Deed can I," said William Ritchie ; 
 and he proceeded to inform Jamie of what 
 had passed between him and Johnstone on 
 the subject in discussion; adding, that he 
 had come to him by the advice of the lat- 
 ter, and concluding by requesting Jamie 
 to search the premises of Mr. Robert Bor- 
 land. 
 
 Jamie, at first, shyed a little at taking 
 so very decisive a step on such strange 
 grounds ; but, at length, agreed to adven- 
 ture on the proceeding. 
 
 On the afternoon of that very day, 
 Jamie, accompanied by two drunken, pim- 
 ple-faced concurrents, visited the domicil 
 of Mr. Robert Borland, and there found, 
 not William Ritchie's beef, but the bar- 
 rel which had contained it ; the last piece 
 of the former having made the family din- 
 ner on that very day. 
 
 The barrel, however, having been identi- 
 fied, and sworn to by its owner, Mr. Bor- 
 land was consigned to the county jail, and 
 subsequently brought to trial before the 
 circuit court for the robbery. 
 
 A young lawyer, who was desirous of 
 fleshing his legal sword for the first time, 
 undertook Mr. Borland's defence without 
 fee or reward, and labored hard to show 
 that the circumstance of the panel at the 
 bar's buying a quantity of mustard daily, 
 was no proof whatever that he was living 
 on stolen salt beef, or, indeed, on salt beef 
 at all. " It might have been salted fish. 
 He might have bought it to eat with salt 
 fish, gentlemen of the jury," said this un- 
 fledged orator, " or with a hundred other 
 articles of food. Why salt beef more than 
 anything else ? I say, that to allege that 
 
 it was salt beef, gentlemen of the jury, is 
 to presume that to be a fact which is a 
 mere hypothesis — a hypothesis founded on 
 an association of ideas — the association of 
 salt beef with mustard, or vice versa. 
 Now, gentlemen of the jury," continued 
 our incipient Cicero, " you will be so good 
 as observe that however natural this asso- 
 ciation of ideas may be — that is, however, 
 natural it may be to suppose that the 
 panel at the bar bought the condiment in 
 question to eat with salt beef — the infer- 
 ence is by no means either a necessary or 
 an inevitable one. Very far from it. It 
 is indeed monstrous to insist on its being 
 SD. Can a man I would ask — can a man, 
 I say — not purchase a pennyworth of mus- 
 tard without being suspected of having 
 stolen salt beef to eat with it ? Or, take 
 another view of the case — is a man to be 
 suspected of having stolen salt beef, because 
 he buys a pennyworth of mustard ? No? 
 gentlemen of the jury, you will never, I 
 am sure, give in to such a monstrous 
 doctrine as this — a doctrine that would 
 destroy at one fell blow the liberty of the 
 subject, and the trade in mustard." 
 
 Much more to the same purpose did 
 this promising young lawyer say ; but, we 
 regret to add, to no purpose. The jury 
 insisted on sticking by the mustard, as at 
 least, a presumptive proof of guilt, when 
 corroborated by the circumstances of Mr. 
 Borland's " habit and repute " character, 
 and the empty barrel's having been found 
 on his premises. The result of this view 
 of the case was a verdict of guilty ; and 
 the consequence of that verdict, sentence 
 of transportation for fourteen years. 
 
 Such was the doom awarded against the 
 ino-enious Mr. Borland ; and. we daresay, 
 the reader 'will allow that seldom has 
 crime owed its detection to so curious a 
 circumstance. 
 
332 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF ST. KENTIGERN. 
 
 This celebrated personags, as is well 
 known, first began business as a saint in 
 the immediate vicinity of the city of Glas- 
 gow. 
 
 On his first settlement in that neighbor- 
 hood, he built himself a hut — said hut 
 bearing a felicitous resemblance to a pig's 
 sty — on the site of the ancient cathedral 
 called by his name. 
 
 While the saint was yet but little known 
 as a person of eminent piety, he was one 
 day surprised by the visit of a young and 
 very beautiful lady, who called at his cot- 
 ta-^G. He was listlessly leaning over the 
 little half- door of his domicil when the 
 lady approached, thinking how he had 
 best go to work to establish a reputation, 
 and but little imagining, worthy man, that 
 an opportunity of accomplishing this de- 
 sirable end was at that very moment about 
 to be presented to him. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Kentigern .'" 
 said the lady, with a gracious smile and 
 profound courtsey, on coming within a 
 yard or so of the former. 
 
 " Pretty well, I thank you, ma'am," 
 replied the saint, respectfully, and at the 
 same time doffing a red nightcap, which 
 he happened to have on at the moment. 
 
 " Could 1 have a private word with you. 
 Sir," said the lady. 
 I Saint Kentigern looked embarrassed by 
 this request. He thought it wouldn't look 
 well in a person of his pretensions to be 
 giving private audiences to young ladies. 
 However, his natural urbanity and polite- 
 ness finally prevailed, and, opening the 
 half door as he spoke — " Oh, certainly, 
 ma'am," he said. " By all means. Walk 
 in if you please." 
 The lady complied. 
 
 '• Grieved, ma'am, to be obliged to in- 
 troduce you to such sorry quarters," said 
 
 ways sat. 
 Ha^-ingr 
 
 the saint, dusting a rush-bottomed chair 
 with half the bottom away, and the re- 
 maining half all tag-rag and bobtail, for 
 the lady to sit upon. She sat down. 
 
 The saint drew in the only other chair 
 he had for his own accommodation. It 
 was a curiosity in its way. The bottom 
 was driven full of nails, points projecting 
 upwards. It was a sort of a mortification 
 chair, and the one in which the saint al- 
 He would sit in no other, 
 seated himself, St. Kentiorern 
 waited the lady's communication. She 
 began : — 
 
 " Mr. Kentigern, the favorable reports 
 I have heard of your piety (here St. Ken- 
 tigern bowed politely to his visitor), have 
 induced me to call upon you, for the pur- 
 pose of asking your advice and aid in a 
 very awkward and unpleasant affair. You 
 must know. Sir, that, about three weeks 
 ago, my husband, who is one of the most 
 jealous men alive, presented me with a 
 gold ring. Well, this ring I most unfor- 
 tunately lost while bathing one day lately 
 in the river Clyde, on the banks of which 
 we live. It had dropped off my finger 
 while I was in the water, for I missed it 
 the moment I came out ; but it was, of 
 course, irrecoverable. Well, Mr. Kenti- 
 gern, would you believe it, my husband, 
 unfeeling brute that he is, swears that I 
 never lost the ring, but have given it to 
 some gallant. He suspects my virtue, Mr. 
 Kentigern. He does, he does. Oh! [can- 
 not live under the vile imputation ;" and 
 here the afflicted fair one burst into tears. 
 
 " Be composed, my dear madam, be 
 composed, I beg of you," said the saint, 
 with an extremely kind and consolatory 
 manner. " It seems 
 case, certainly.'' 
 
 " It is. Sir, a very 
 
 to be a very hard 
 hard one — a very 
 
A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF ST. KENTIGERN. 
 
 333 
 
 cruel one. I am an ill-used, a shockinly 
 ill-used woman, Mr. Kentigern. Now, my 
 dear Sir," continued the lady, getting a 
 little more calm, " can you do anything 
 for me ? Can you assist me to disabuse 
 my husband of the infamous notion he 
 has taken into his head ?" 
 
 " Why, ma'am, not on the spur of the 
 moment ; not to-night," said the saint, 
 stroking his chin thoughtfully. " I must 
 have a little time to think, ma'am ; and, 
 moreover, ma'am — pray, be not offended 
 — I must make some inquiries into the 
 case before I can do anything in it ; andj 
 to be plain with you ma'am — plain dealing 
 is best in all cases — I must make some in- 
 cjuiries regarding yourself, before I can 
 promise you any assistance, although I 
 have no doubt that the result of these in- 
 quiries will be perfectly satisfactory. No 
 doubt of it whatever. 
 
 " This being the case, then, ma'am, if 
 you will be kind enough to call upon me 
 again — say to-morrow, about this time — I 
 will see what can be done ; and, in the 
 meantime, beg to assure you that it will 
 afford me infinite pleasure if I can be of 
 any S3rvice to you in this or any other 
 matter." 
 
 ''• Oh, thank you, Sir ! — thank you ! — 
 you are very kind," said the lady, rising 
 from her seat. '•' I cannot tell you Mr. 
 Kentigern, how much I am obliged to 
 you ; for, feeling confident of the result 
 of the inquiries you quite reasonably pro- 
 pose to make, I may reckon, I dare say, 
 on having secured your kind assistance in 
 this most unhappy affair. I will be punc- 
 tual, to-morrow afternoon. Good morn- 
 ing. Sir — good morning." 
 
 " Good morning, madam," replied the 
 saint, also rising. " Sorry, ma'am, that 
 I can offer you no refreshment of any kind. 
 1 keep no bottle,'' he added, smiling. " A 
 few herbs from the Fir Park, and a pitcher 
 of water from the Molendinar, form the 
 staple of my living." 
 
 " Don't mention it, Mr. Kentigern ! — 
 don't mention it, my dear sir, if you 
 
 please. You have been but too kind in 
 saying the many obliging things you have 
 said. Good mornino; ao-ain, sir." 
 
 The saint bowed, and the lady departed 
 having previously given the former to un- 
 derstand that her name was Mrs. Milligan. 
 
 The worthy saint lost no time in mak- 
 ing the inquiries regarding the lady which 
 he had proposed to make. She was not 
 half-an-hour gone when he drew on his 
 greatcoat, the night being chilly, rolled a 
 red comforter about his neck, took a stick 
 in his hand, and sallied forth in quest of 
 Mrs. Milligan's character. 
 
 The result was highly gratifying. He 
 found that she was a most virtuous wo- 
 man ; most exemplary, as the obituaries 
 have it, in all the relations of life, and 
 that her husband was a brute. 
 
 Possessed of this satisfactory informa- 
 tion, the saint returned home, and waited 
 with some impatience — for he delighted in 
 doing good — the promised reappearance 
 of I\irs. ]Millio;an. 
 
 The lady came at the appointed time. 
 St. Kentigern received her with a cordial 
 welcome. There was now, on his part, 
 no doubt — no hesitation — no reserve. The 
 information he had received resjardins: her 
 had banished all that. 
 
 " Come away, my dear madam," he 
 said, taking her affectionately by the hand, 
 and contemplating her with a smile of 
 great benignity. " I am glad to see you, 
 and still more glad to inform you that all's 
 right. I have had the most satisfactory 
 accounts of you in all quarters." 
 
 The lady blushed and curtsied. 
 
 " Then sir," she said, '• I may hope, I 
 presume, for your kind assistance in help- 
 ins: me to re-establish mv character." 
 
 " Most certainly, ma'am." 
 
 " You will probably take the trouble 
 of calling on my husband, and, by reason- 
 ing with him, convince him of the injus- 
 tice he has done me." 
 
 " No, ma'am. I will serve you in a 
 much more effectual way." 
 
 " Indeed, sir ; and how, pray .'" 
 
334 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " I will perform a miracle, madam, in 
 your behalf," said the saint. " A miracle, 
 madam ; and one of the neatest that has 
 been done for a long while. Quite a gem 
 of a thing." 
 
 " A miracle I" exclaimed the lady in 
 raptures. " O dear ! that will be so de- 
 lightful, so charming." 
 
 " Yes, madam," said St. Kentigern, 
 with a look of grave importance — " It 
 shall be a very pretty thing. It will con- 
 found your enemies, madam, especially 
 your unfeeling monster of a husband — 
 whom it will strike as dumb as an oyster." 
 
 " Pray, what sort of a miracle will it 
 be, Mr. Kentigern r" inquired the lady, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Excuse me, ma'am," said the former. 
 " It never does to divulge these things be- 
 fore hand. But I'll tell you what you 
 have to do, ma'am. Without mentioning 
 anything of this matter to your husband, 
 endeavor to prevail upon him to walk with 
 you by the river side, a little above the 
 village of Bridgegate, to-morrow afternoon 
 about this time. I will be on the ground, 
 and will, then and there, perform the mira- 
 cle 1 have spoken of." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir — a thousand 
 thanks," said Mrs. Milligan, rising to de- 
 part. '* I shall be punctual, and shall en- 
 deavor to coax my husband to come along 
 with me ; although it will not be an easy 
 task, as he is in shocking bad humor just 
 now, about that confounded ring. How- 
 ever, I think I shall be able to manage 
 him, after all." 
 
 "I hope you will, ma'am — I hope you 
 will," said St. Kentigern, bowing his fair 
 visitor to the door. 
 
 On the followinii; afternoon, Mrs. Millif'an 
 and her husband appeared at the appoint- 
 ed place. IJow she had prevailed on him 
 to accompany her is not known ; but there 
 they were. That they were still, however, 
 on very indifferent terms, was evident, 
 from the circumstance of their not walk- 
 ing arm-in-arm together, but one after 
 the other — the gentleman first, and the 
 
 lady several yards behind. The former, 
 too, was looking most horribly sulky and 
 discontented. 
 
 While thus dodging along the banks of 
 the river, Mr. and Mrs. Milligan saw a 
 stout gentleman, carrying a stick in his 
 hand, and wearing a very broad-brimmed 
 hat, approaching with a slow and stately 
 step, it was St. Kentigern. 
 
 Mrs. Milligan immediately recognised 
 him ; and, running forward, extended her 
 hand to him. The saint took it cordially ; 
 touching his hat, at the same time, re- 
 spectfully, with his left hand. 
 
 '' My husband, Mr. Kentigern," said 
 the lady, introducing the latter to the for- 
 mer — " Mr. Kentigern, Peter." 
 
 " Hope you're well, sir," said the saint 
 to Mr. Milligan, raising his hat politely, 
 but at the same time looking very cold 
 and stern. 
 
 " Pretty well, I thank you, su'," replied 
 the latter, somewhat gruffly. 
 
 " Mr. Milligan, sir, I am sorry to say," 
 resumed St. Kentigern, " that you are 
 using your poor wife here very ill — very 
 ill, indeed. She is a paragon of virtue, 
 sir ; and your accusing her of having given 
 away the ring you presented her with 
 lately, is a most unjust one. She lost the 
 ring, sir, and precisely in the way she 
 says." 
 
 " That's all in my eye," replied the 
 uncourteous Mr. Milligan. " I know bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " I'll prove it, sir," said Kentigern, 
 indignantly. 
 
 *' Will you, by Jingo !" replied Mr. 
 Milligan. ^'' I should like to see you." 
 
 St. Kentifijern deis-ned no further alter- 
 cation on the subject ; but, turning to- 
 wards the river, where were some fisher- 
 men dragging a net to shore — 
 
 " I say, lads," he called out, addressing 
 the fishermen, " bring hither the first sal- 
 mon you catch." 
 
 One of the men tauched his hat, and 
 said he would ; and, in a minutes after, 
 came towards the saint with a fine large 
 
A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF ST. KENTIGERK 
 
 335^ 
 
 fish, which had just been taken, in his 
 arms. 
 
 *' Put it down on the grass there," said 
 the saint to the fisherman. " Now, mj 
 man, kneel down, open the fish's mouth, 
 and see if it contains anything extraordi- 
 nary." 
 
 The man did as he was desired. He 
 knelt down, opened the salmon's mouth, 
 when, lo and behold ! it was found to con- 
 tain a gold ring. The fisherman was 
 amazed. St. Kentis-ern was not so in the 
 least, but coolly desired the man to hand 
 it to him. He did so, when the saint, 
 presenting it to Mr. Milligan, said — 
 
 " Examine that ring, sir, and see if you 
 recognise it. I rather think you will find 
 it to be the same with that you gave to 
 your wife, and which you kicked up such 
 a dust about." 
 
 " It is — it is, indeed !" exclaimed the 
 astonished and confounded Mr. Milligan, 
 turnino-the rin<; round and round. " The 
 identical ring, as I'm a sinner !" 
 
 " Yes, sir, it; is," said St. Kentigern, 
 with a severe aspect. " And now, sir, 
 are you not ashamed of yourself, and of 
 the gross injustice you have done this most 
 innocent and most virtuous woman here .'' 
 Does not this satisfy you that she indeed 
 lost the rins; as she said ? Is not its beino; 
 found in the river sufficient proof that it 
 was lost there .?" 
 
 " It is — it is ! I am- satisfied — perfectly 
 satisfied," replied the contrite and hum- 
 bbd Mr. Milligan ; " and heartily sorry am 
 I for the injury I have done you, my dear. " 
 
 And he tenderly embraced his wife, 
 who, so far from triumphing over her hus- 
 band in an insolent manner, as she might 
 well have done, or rejecting his advances, 
 was all meekness and humility. Her in- 
 nocence had been proven, and she was 
 satisfied ; it was all she desired. 
 
 *' iSow, my dear sir," said the repent- 
 ant husband, addressino; St. Kentio-crn, 
 ''how am I to recompense you for the 
 trouble you have taken in this little family 
 afi'air of mine .^" 
 
 " I want no recompense, sir," replied 
 the saint ; " I do' good for its own sake 
 a;lone, and not for reward." 
 
 " You will, at least, do us the honor of 
 going home with us, and taking a bit of 
 dinner with us," said Mr. Milligan. 
 
 " Excuse me ; I never dine out," re- 
 plied St. Kentigern ; " nor is it a practice 
 I approve of. Good evening, sir ; and' 
 allow me to hope that you will benefit by 
 this lesson." Then, turning to Mrs. Mil- 
 ligan — " Good evening, my dear madam," 
 hti said, taking her tenderly by the hand. 
 " Your innocence is now fully and fairly 
 established, and your enemies fully and 
 fairly confounded. Believe me, madam, 
 I am delighted at having had the oppor- 
 tunity of serving you ; and I beg that you 
 will not hesitate to apply to me should you 
 ever again stand in need of any such aid 
 or advice as I can aiFord. Farewell, my 
 dear madam !" 
 
 And the saint, raising his hat politely 
 to the lady, who was so much afi"ected that 
 she could not say a word, and rather 
 coldishly saluting the gentleman, turned' 
 him round and departed. 
 
 Such is the well authenticated tradition 
 which has introduced into the arms of the 
 city of Glasgow, amongst other emblema- 
 tical insignia, the figure of a salmon with » 
 ring in its mouth. 
 
 This famous miracle, we may add, set 
 St. Kentigern at once upon his feet. It 
 made him as a saint, throwing around him. 
 an odor of sanctity, which the lapse of 
 some eight or ten hundred years has but 
 little abated. 
 
336 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 Fifty years ago, William Percy rented a 
 farm that consisted of about a hundred 
 acres, and which was situated on the banks 
 of the Till. His wife, though not remark- 
 able for her management of a farm-house, 
 was a woman of ma^y virtues, and pos- 
 sessed of a kind and aflfectionate heart. 
 They had an only daughter, whose name 
 was Agnes ; and, as she approached 
 towards womanhood, people began to 
 designate her The Rose of Till-side. Her 
 beauty was not of the kind that dazzles or 
 excites sudden admiration ; but it grew 
 upon the sight like the increasing bright- 
 ness of a young rainbow — its influence 
 stole over the soul as moonlight on the 
 waters. It was pleasant to look upon her 
 fair countenance, where sweetness gave a 
 character to beauty, mellowing it and soft- 
 enino; it, as though the soul of innocence 
 there reflected its image. Many said 
 that no one could look upon the face of 
 Agnes Percy and sin. Her bair was of 
 the lightest brown, her eyes of the softest 
 blue, and the lovely rose which bears the 
 name of Maidcn^s Blush is not more deli- 
 cate in the soft glow of its coloring, than 
 was the vermilion tint upon her cheeks. 
 She was of middle stature, and her fisfure 
 might have served a sculptor as a model. 
 But she was good and gentle as she was 
 beautiful. The widow mentioned her 
 name in her prayers — the poor blessed her. 
 Now, Agnes was about eighteen, when 
 a young man of her own age, named Hen- 
 ry Cranstoun, took up his residence for a 
 few months in her father's house. He was 
 the son of a distant relative of her mother, 
 and was then articled as a clerk or appren- 
 tice to a writer to the siimet in Edinburcjh. 
 He also was the only child of his parents ; 
 for, though they had had eight others, he was 
 all that death had left them. He was the 
 
 youngest son of his mother ; and there was 
 a time when there was no mother had 
 greater cause to be proud of her children. 
 Yea, as they hand in hand, or one by one 
 went forth on the Sabbath morning with 
 their parents to their place of worship, 
 there was not an eye that looked not with 
 delight or admiration on the little Cran- 
 stouns. The neatness of their dress, the 
 loveliness of every countenance, the family 
 likeness of each, the apparent affection of 
 all, the propriety of their demeanor, inte- 
 rested all who looked upon them. But, as 
 untimely flowers, that, by a returning frost, 
 are stricken down in beauty, so drooped, 
 so perished, this fair and happy family. 
 Some had said that they were too beauti- 
 ful to live ; and, as they also manifested 
 much quickness and wisdom for their years, 
 there were others who said to Mrs. Cran- 
 stoun, as she was sheddina; their shinins; 
 hair upon their brows, that she would 
 never comb an old head ! This is a cold, 
 cruel, and ignorant prophecy. It has sent 
 foreboding and unhappincss into the bosoms 
 of many a fond mother ; but, in this case, 
 it needed not the gift of a seer to foretell 
 the gloomy tidings. Consumption lurked 
 amidst the beauty that glowed on every 
 cheek ; and seven of the fair family had 
 fallen victims to the progre;^ of the insi- 
 dious destroyer, till Henry alone was left. 
 And now, even upon him also, it seemed 
 to have set its mark. The hollow cough 
 and the flushed cheek, the languidness by 
 day and the restlessness by night, gave 
 evidence that the disease was there. 
 
 Change of air and less study were re- 
 commended by the physicians as the only 
 means by which Henry might be saved ; 
 and he was sent over to Northumberland, 
 to the ho^se of William Percy, his mother's 
 friend. 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 337 
 
 It was about that period of the year 
 which is spoken of as the " fall of the leaf," 
 when Henry Cranstoun first arrived at 
 Till-side. William Percy had just gather- 
 ed in his harvest, and Henry met with the 
 kindly welcome of a primitive family. The 
 father, the mother, and their daughter, re- 
 ceived him as one whom they were to 
 snatch from the hands of death. In a few 
 days, the goafs milk, and the bracing air, 
 which came with health on its wings from 
 the adjacent mountains, wrought a visible 
 change in the appearance of the invalid. 
 His cough became more softened, his eyes 
 less languid, his step more firm, and he 
 panted not as he walked. He felt return- 
 ing strength flowing through his veins — in 
 his bosom, in the moving of his fingers, he 
 felt it. He walked out by the side of 
 Agnes — she led him by the banks of the 
 Till, by the foot of the hills, by the woods 
 where the brown leaves were falling, and 
 by the solitary glen. 
 
 Perhaps I might have said that the pre- 
 sence of Agnes contributed not less than 
 the mountain air, and the change of 
 scenery, to his restoration to health. Of 
 this I have not been told. Certain it is 
 that her beauty and her gentleness had 
 spread their influence over his heart, as 
 spring, with its wooing breath, awakens 
 the dreaming earth from its winter sleep. 
 It was not the season when nature calls 
 forth the soul to love ; for the cushat was 
 silent in the wood, the mavis voiceless on 
 the thorn, the birds were dumb on every 
 spray the wild-flowers had closed their 
 leaves and drooped, and the meadows lost 
 their fragrance. But, as they wandered 
 forth together, a lark started up at their 
 feet ; it raised its autumn song over their 
 heads ; it poured it in their ears. Both 
 raised their eyes in joy towards the sing- 
 ing bird ; they listened to it with delight. 
 His fingers were pressed on hers as he 
 heard it, as though he would have said — 
 " How sweet it is !" But the lustre for- 
 sook his eyes while he yet listened — he 
 sighed, and was silent. They returned 
 
 VOL. II. 59 
 
 home together, and Agnes strove to cheer 
 him ; but his spirit was heavy, and he 
 pressed her hand more fervently in his. 
 The sons of the lark seemed to have 
 touched a chord of sadness in his bosom. 
 Henry was heard walking backward and 
 forward in his room throughout the night ; 
 and, on the following morning at break- 
 fast, he put a paper into the hands of 
 Aj^nes, on which were written the follow- 
 ing rhymes : — 
 
 THE LARK'S AUTUMNAL SONG.l 
 
 (inscribed to AGNES PERCY.) 
 
 Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard, 
 
 Bird of the daring wing ! 
 When last ye sprang from the daisied sward 
 
 Making the welkin ring, 
 Thy lay the dreaming buds awoke — 
 Thy voice the spell of winter broke — 
 The primrose, on the mossy brae, 
 Burst beauteous into life and day, 
 
 And smiled to hear thee sing I 
 The children clapped their tiny hands ; 
 The shout rang through their little bands, 
 
 Hailing the bird of spring I 
 Thy lay made earth and air rejoice, 
 And Nature heard thee as an angel's Toice. 
 
 Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard, 
 
 Bird of the mournful song I 
 A lonely daisy yet decks the sward, 
 
 The last of the summer throng. 
 "While here and there, upon the brae 
 Some primrose, languid as the ray, 
 Of hope that vanisheth away. 
 
 Upon the cheek of death, 
 Untimely opes its golde-^ wing, 
 Mistaking, as it hears thee sing, 
 That thou art come to tell of spring, 
 
 And not of winter's wrath. 
 But now thy strain is as one that grieves — 
 Thou singest the dirge of the falling leaves I 
 
 Again in the heavens thy hymn T hear. 
 
 Bird of the merry song ! 
 Thou art ringing a lay in old winter's ear— 
 Ye bid him farewell, and ye welcome him here— 
 
 Ye help the old man along ! 
 Ye are singing to look on the fruits of the year 
 Gathered in, and in ripeness, with plenty around ; 
 And ye pour o"er earth's fulness a rapturous sound. 
 Ye are singing a strain that man should have sung— 
 Man with ingratitude sealed on his tongue ! 
 At seed-time, thy joyous and hope-breathing lay, 
 To the ploughman was sung, as an anthem, all day, 
 And now, at his harvest, ye greet him again, 
 And call him to join in thy thanksgiving strain .' 
 
 Ao-nes wept as she perused the fore- 
 boding lines, which he had marked in 
 what printers call italics, in the second 
 stiinza, by drawing a line under them. 
 She felt interested in the fate of Henry 
 
338 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Cranstoun — deeply interested. We be- 
 lieve that, like the gentle Desdemona, she 
 wished that 
 
 " Heaven had made her such a man ;" 
 
 for, though the young writer to the signet 
 spoke not 
 
 " Of war, and broils, and battles,-' 
 
 his tongue was the interpreter of nature — 
 he dwelt as an enthusiast on its beauties, 
 its mysteries, its benevolence, its glorious 
 design ; and, through all, he would point 
 
 " Through Nature up to Nature's God !" 
 
 It is a common saying, " that you can- 
 not put an old head upon young shoul- 
 ders ;" but, if ever the truth of the saying 
 might be disputed, it was in the case of 
 Henry Cranstoun. The deaths of his 
 brothers and his sisters had rested upon 
 his young mind — they had struck it with 
 awe — they had made him to feel that he, 
 too, must die — he, indeed, felt as though the 
 shadow of death were creeping over him ; 
 and the thoughts and the hopes of eter- 
 nity early became the companions of his 
 spirit. He treasured up the words of the 
 inspired preacher, " Remember thy Crea- 
 tor in the days of thy youth." He trea- 
 sured them up, and he practised them ; 
 and his deportment gave him a deeper 
 interest in the eyes of the Northumbrian 
 farmer and his family. 
 
 William Percy was esteemed by his 
 neighbors as a church-going and a good 
 man. He was kind to his servants ; he 
 
 paid every man his own ; he was an affec- 
 tionate husband, and a fond father ; the 
 poor turned not away murmuring from his 
 door ; and, every Sunday night, he knelt 
 with his wife and with his daughter, before 
 his Maker, in worship, as though it were 
 a duty which was to be discharged but 
 once in seven days. Now, it was late on 
 a Saturday night when Henry Cranstoun 
 arrived at their house ; and, on the follow- 
 ing evening, he joined in the devotions of 
 the family. But Monday night came, and 
 the supper passed, and the Bibles were 
 not brought. Henry inquired — 
 " Is it not time for worship .?" 
 
 The question went to the conscience of 
 the farmer — he felt that before his Crea- 
 tor, who preserved him, who gave him 
 every breath he drew, he had knelt with 
 his family but once a-week. " Is not He 
 the Almighty of all time and of all eter- 
 nity .^" asked his conscience ; " and 
 have I not served Him as though He were 
 Lord of the Sabbath only } J forsake 
 Him for a week — where should I be if He 
 left me but for a moment ?" 
 
 " Agnes, love," said he aloud, " bring 
 the books." 
 
 She cheerfully obeyed ; and the Bibles 
 were laid upon the table. The psalm 
 was read, and the voice of praise was 
 heard ; and as the hinds in the adjoining 
 houses heard the sound they followed the 
 example of their master. Hitherto like 
 their employer, they had lifted their 
 voices in thanksgiving but once a week ; 
 as if a few minutes spent in praise and in 
 prayer, and in the reading of a chapter, 
 were all that was necessary for example to 
 a family, or for gratitude to Him who 
 sustained, protected, and gave them being 
 from moment to moment. I should not 
 dwell upon this, were it not that there are 
 many good and Christian parents, who 
 conceive that they fulfil the injunction of 
 '^ praying often with and for their chil- 
 dren," by causing them to kneel around 
 them on a Sabbath night. But this, cer- 
 tainly, is a poor fulfilment of the oath 
 which they have taken — or which, if they 
 have not taken, they are equally bound to 
 perform. I do not say that the man who 
 daily prays with his family will have the 
 gratification of seeing all of them following 
 in his footsteps, or that all of them will 
 think as he thinks ; but he may be of one 
 sect, and some of them of another ; yet, 
 let them go where they will, let them be 
 thrown into what company they may, let 
 temptation assail them in every form, and 
 absence throw its shadows over their fa- 
 ther's house, yet the remembrance, the 
 fervor, the words of a father's prayers, 
 will descend upon their souls like a whis- 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 339 
 
 per from Heaven, kindling the memory 
 and awakening the conscience ; and, if 
 the child of such a man depart into sin, 
 the small still voice will not die in his ear. 
 Nay, the remembrance of the father's 
 voice will be heard in the son's heart 
 above the song of the bacchanal, and the 
 lowly remembered voice of psalms rise 
 upon his memory, making him insensible 
 to the peal of instruments. 1 have listen- 
 ed to the sonorous swell of the organ in 
 the Roman church and Episcopal cathe- 
 dral, to the chant of the choristers and 
 the music of the anthem, and I have been 
 awed by the sounds ; but they produced 
 not the feelings of peace and of reverence, 
 I might say of religion, which are inspired 
 by the lowly voices of a congregated 
 family joining together in their hymn of 
 praise. I have thought that such sounds, 
 striking on the ear of the guilty, would 
 arrest them in their progress. 
 
 Such was the change which Henry 
 Cranstoun introduced into the house of 
 his host. From that moment, Agnes re- 
 garded him with a deeper interest, her fa- 
 ther loved him, and her mother looked on 
 him as a son. But, although his mind 
 had been early imbued with serious im- 
 pressions, he was a lover of all that was 
 beautiful in nature — he was warm of heart 
 and eloquent of speech — and his form was 
 such as the eye of a maiden might look on 
 with €omplacency. 
 
 Christmas had passed before he left the 
 house of his mother's friend, and health 
 again glowed on his cheeks, strength re- 
 visited his frame. No one that saw Hen- 
 ry Cranstoun on his entering the house of 
 jNIr. Percy three months before, and who 
 had not seen him in the meanwhile, would 
 have known him to be the same individual. 
 But Agnes noted no change in him. She 
 knew that his health was now restored ; 
 but she had begun to hope and love at the 
 same moment, and she had never thought 
 that Henry would die. His eyes had ever 
 been bright to her — his voice ever pleas- 
 ing ; and her beauty, her gentleness, her 
 
 sweetness of temper, her kindness, her 
 looks, her tones of affection, had fallen 
 upon his bosom, till every thcright, fcave 
 the thought of Agnes, was banished. 
 
 He was to leave her father's house — he 
 bade her farewell ; till that moment, they 
 had not known how dear they were unto 
 each other. They had never spoken of 
 love — and, to hearts that do love, there is 
 little need for such declarations. The 
 affection of every glance, the guarded 
 delicacy of every action, speaks it more 
 plainly than the impassioned eloquence of 
 language. True eloquence is feelincj", 
 and feeling dictates the words to be used, 
 pouring them forth in the full tide of the 
 heart's emotion ; but, though love also be 
 feeling, it is not of that kind which makes 
 men eloquent. True love is dumb, as 
 true gratitude. It speaks from the glow- 
 ing eye and the throbbing bosom ; from 
 the hand passionately grasped — not from 
 the tongue. 
 
 Henry and Agnes said little ; but they 
 fell upon the necks of each other when 
 
 they parted. She wept, and from his 
 eyes the tear was ready to fall. He kiss- 
 ed her brow, and said that in the spring 
 he would return. 
 
 He left Northumberland, and his par- 
 ents welcomed him as one received from 
 the dead. He was strong and healthy, 
 and he alone, of all their children, seemed 
 to have overcome the power of the des- 
 troyer. Yet a week never passed but he 
 wrote to his friends, who had snatched him 
 as from the gates of death ; or rather I 
 should say, that he wrote to the gentle 
 Agnes, requesting that the expression of 
 his gratitude might be given to her parents, 
 until he returned to thank them. But 
 spring came, and with it Henry Cranstoun 
 returned to Till-side. Health still glowed 
 in his eyes and beamed upon his checks. 
 He was fond of angling, and, with his rod 
 in his hand, he sought amusement in the 
 gentle art ; yet his favorite pastime afford- 
 ed him no pleasure, save when Agnes was 
 by his side, and then they would sit down 
 
340 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 on the brae-side together, with her hand in 
 his, and the fishing-rod on the ground, and 
 they forgot that he had gone out to fish, 
 until evening came, and he returned with 
 his creel empty. 
 
 Thus five years passed on, and, twice in 
 every year, Henry Cranstoun visited his 
 friends in Northumberland. He had com- 
 menced practice in Edinburgh ; fair pros- 
 pects opened before him ; his marriage-day 
 was fixed ; and need I say that the bride 
 was Agnes ? 
 
 The ceremony was to be performed in 
 the parish church, which was situated about 
 a mile from her father's house. Henry 
 was only expected to arrive an hour or two 
 before the marriage was to take place. 
 The bosom of fair Agnes throbbed with 
 tumultuous joy. Her parents gazed upon 
 her — blessed her, and were happy. She 
 sat before them, arrayed, a bride for the 
 altar. He whom she loved and they es- 
 teemed, was that day to make her his wife. 
 Her mother gazed on her with pride — she 
 blessed her Agnes. Her father's heart 
 glowed within him. The bridemaidens 
 were come — Agnes was impatient, but 
 still happy ; no fear, no doubt had risen 
 in her mind. She knew her Henry. 
 
 But the last hour arrived, and Henry 
 came not. Her uneasiness increased. 
 The servants were sent to a neio-hborincr 
 hill • but no chaise, no horseman appear- 
 ed in sight. Agnes became unhappy ; 
 paleness overspread her cheeks. The com- 
 pany were silent. Her father's watch hung 
 over the mantel-piece, and she sat at the 
 opposite side of the room ; yet its ticking 
 fell upon her ears slow and heavy, as 
 sounds from a hammer on an anvil. Tears, 
 which she had struggled to conceal, now 
 gathered in her eyes. Some evil, she said, 
 and wept, had befallen Henry. 
 
 The hour which had been appointed for 
 the ceremony was passed ; but still be 
 came not. Her fears, her anxiety increas- 
 ed, and she wept the more, refusing to be 
 comforted She knew not what she fear- 
 ed ; but her breast was filled with misery. 
 
 She had received a letter from him but 
 three days before. She read it again — it 
 breathed the language of impassioned 
 affection, but his truth she doubted not ; 
 yet there was an incoherency, a vehemence, 
 in some parts of the letter, which were not 
 like the style of Henry. A vague horror 
 shot across her thoughts, and her hand 
 trei::ibled as she laid the letter aside. 
 
 Still the servants were despatched to 
 see if he approached, and at length they 
 brought tidings that two horsemen were 
 riding towards the house. Agnes strove to 
 wipe away the tears from her eyes, but her 
 heart yet throbbed, and others rose in their 
 place. The horsemen drew near the house. 
 Those of the company who beheld them 
 from the windows drew back with a look 
 of dismay. Agnes clasped her hands to- 
 gether as she beheld the expression of 
 their countenances. The evil she appre- 
 hended was about to be revealed. The 
 parish clergyman, and the minister of the 
 congregation to which Mr. Percy belong- 
 ed, entered the room. She started from 
 her seat as they entered — she rung her 
 hands on her bosom — her eyes seemed fix- 
 ed and motionless with misery — her lips 
 moved — her tongue struggled for utterance. 
 
 " Be comforted !" said one of the rev- 
 erend visitors, kindly. 
 
 " Is my Henry dead .?" she exclaimed — 
 " is he dead .?" 
 
 " He is not dead," was the reply ; 
 
 " but" and the clergyman hesitated a 
 
 moment to proceed. 
 
 *' His mind is deadP'' added the wretch- 
 ed bride, and sank back in her mother's 
 arms. The dismal thought flashed upon 
 her soul, the vague horror that she had 
 shrank from before became tangible — the 
 incoherency and vehemence of passages in 
 his last letter were suddenly and fearfully 
 interpreted. 
 
 The tidings which the clergymen had to 
 communicate, her fears had already told. 
 The mind of Henry Cranstoun had be- 
 come a wreck. A cloud fell upon his rea- 
 son ; and, on the day that he was to lead 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 341 
 
 his bride to the altar, he was placed an 
 inmate of the gloomy cells of Bedlam. 
 
 Several months had passed, and the 
 grief of Agnes beca.me more tranquil, but 
 not less deep. She intreated permission 
 to visit her bridegroom im the place of his 
 confinement, and her parents fondl}'- en- 
 deavored to dissuade her from her pur- 
 pose ; but it became the one, the ruling 
 wish of her heart, and thej consented. Her 
 father accomp anied her to the dreary pri- 
 son-house. But I shall not attempt to dis- 
 cribe the heart-rending interview, nor to tell 
 how the iron which fettered him entered her 
 soul. He knew her — he wept before her 
 as a child — he exclaimed, " My brain ! — 
 my brain!" and pressed his hand upon 
 his brow. Around him were strewed scraps 
 of paper : she beheld her name upon each ; 
 they were covered with verses of love, and 
 of wildness. But I will not dwell upon 
 the harrowing scene, upon the words that 
 were spoken, and the fitful gleams of rea- 
 son that fiitted across his soul, as his eyes 
 remained rivetted on the face he loved. 
 But when her father, with a faltering voice, 
 suggested that they should depart, and 
 took her hand to lead her from the cell, a 
 scream of loud and bitter agony burst 
 from the wretched maniac. " Agnes ! — 
 Affnes !" he cried, and his wailino; was as 
 the lamentation of a lost spirit. Anguish 
 overpowered her, and she was borne in- 
 sensible from the cell, in her father's arms. 
 
 Seven long and dreary years passed, 
 and the mind of Henry was still be- 
 wildered ; still was he an inmate of the 
 melancholy asylum, and no hope was en- 
 tertained of his recovery. But the heart 
 of A sues knew no chanfje — for him she 
 still shed the secret tear, and offered up 
 the secret prayer. 
 
 But her father's fortunes were altered. 
 He had been induced to enter into a specu- 
 lation with one who deceived him, and in 
 it the industry of years was swallowed up 
 and lost. He was obliged to leave his 
 farm, and he now resided in a small cot- 
 tao-e in its neiirhborhood. Still there were 
 
 many who sought the hand of the fair Rose 
 of Till-side ; but she chose rather to brood 
 over the remembrance of poor, ruined 
 Henry, than to listen to their addresses. 
 But amonsfst them was a young gentleman 
 named Walker, whose condition was far 
 above hers, and who for two years had 
 vainly sought a place in her affections. In 
 the day of her father's distress he had 
 been his friend, and he yet sought to place 
 him again in a state of independence. 
 The health of Mr. Percy, also, began to 
 dechne ; the infirmities of age were grow- 
 ing upo^ him ; and the little that he had 
 been able to save from the wreck of his 
 capital, was wasting rapidly away. He be- 
 came melancholy with the thought that he 
 ■should die a pauper, or leave his wife and 
 his daughter in want ; and, in the presence 
 of Agnes, he often spoke of Mr. Walker — 
 ef the escellence of his character — of his 
 Wealth — of what he had done for him, in 
 the midst of his misfortunes — of what he 
 still desired to do — and of his affection for 
 her. She listened to her father's words in 
 sorrow and in silence, and, on her pillow 
 by night, she wept because of them. To 
 her the remembrance of Henry Cranstoun 
 was dearer then the temptations of wealth, 
 and her heart clung to him with a con- 
 stancy which neither time, misery, nor 
 hopelessness could shake. She was grate- 
 ful to her lather's friend for the kindness 
 he had shown him, and for the generosity 
 of the proposals he had -made — yet she 
 found that she could not love him, that her 
 bosom had room for none but Henry. 
 
 Poverty, however, entered her parents' 
 dwelling, and her father seemed drooping 
 for lack of nourishment, which his increas- 
 ing feebleness required. Her mother, too, 
 sat silent and melancholy, occasionally 
 raising her eyes to her daughter's face, 
 with a look that implored her to save her 
 father. The old man had been ordered 
 wine daily ; but their penury was now 
 such that they could not purchase it, and 
 the plainest food had become scanty on 
 their table. 
 
342 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Such was tbeir situation, and they were 
 sitting sorrowful together, when Mr. 
 Walker entered the room. He approached 
 Agnes respectfully, he took her hand. 
 
 *' Dear Agnes," ho began, " can one 
 with so kind a heart look with indifference 
 on the wants and the sufferings of a father 
 and a mother ? It is in your power to 
 make them happy, to restore ihem to pros- 
 perity. For two years I have sought your 
 hand, without meeting one look of encour- 
 agement, or one word of hope. Yet be- 
 lieve me, Agues, I admire the eanstancy 
 which induces you to cherish a hopeless 
 passion and reject me. If not for my 
 sake, yet for the sake of your poor father, 
 for that of your fond mother, yea, for 
 your own sake, dearest, permit me to call 
 you mine. I do not ask your love now ; 
 give me but your esteem, and I will study to 
 deserve your affaction. Dear friends, plead 
 for me," he added, addressing her parents. 
 Her father laid his^hand upon hers — 
 " Dear Agnes," said he, " your father is 
 now a poor man — he is very poor. I fear 
 the hand of death is already upon me; 
 and when I am gone, who will provide for 
 your poor mother — who will protect thee, 
 my child ? It is the only wish of my heart 
 to see you provided for, and your father 
 would die in peace. And oh, my Agnes, 
 as your father's dying request, permit me to 
 bestow jouT hand upon this generous youth. " 
 " Save us, ray sweet one!'' cried her 
 mother, and she flung her arms around her 
 daughter's neck. 
 
 " It is done !" exclaimed Agnes, burst- 
 ing into tears, and she stretched out her 
 hand to Mr. Walker. 
 
 A few weeks afterwards, and the village 
 bells rang a merry peal, children scattered 
 flowers, and there was joy on every face, 
 «ave upon the face of the fair bride, who 
 wont as a sacrifice to the altar. She heard 
 not the words of the clergyman as he read 
 the ceremony. She trembled, she would 
 have fallen to the ground, but that the 
 bride 's-maid supported her. 
 
 The marriage-party were returning by 
 a foot-path from the church, the sorrowful 
 bride restino; on the arm of her bridegroom. 
 A stranger mot them — he turned aside, 
 that they might pass. His eyes fell upon 
 the countenance of the bride. 
 
 " O Heavens ! my Agnes !" cried the 
 stranger, in a voice of agony. 
 
 " Henry ! my Henry !" screamed the 
 wretched bride, and starting from the side 
 of the bridegroom, she sank on the breast 
 of the stranger. 
 
 That stranger was indeed Henry Cran- 
 stoun. A severe illness had brousiht him 
 to the verge of death, and with his restor- 
 ation to health reason was restored also. 
 He had come to take his bride to his bo- 
 som — he met her the bride of another. It 
 was a scene of misery. 
 
 " Agnes ! Agnes 1" groaned Henry, 
 " would to Heaven I had died ! You are 
 another's, though your heart is mine ! 
 Farewell ! farewell !— we must meet no 
 more ! I have endured mu:ch, but never 
 misery like this !" 
 
 She could only exclaim — " Henry I" 
 and speech failed her — recollection fled. 
 Henry Cranstoun struck his hand upon his 
 brow, and rushed wildly away. Agnes 
 was conveyed to her father's house, as be- 
 inof nearer than that of her bride o;ro-om's. 
 She was laid upon her bed, she seemed 
 unconscious of all around, and her tongue 
 only uttered the word " Henry." She rose 
 not aoiain from the bed on which she was 
 laid, and, within a week, her gentle spirit 
 fled. The shock which Henry had met 
 with occasioned a relapse of the fever, 
 from which he had but recently recovered. 
 He was taken to the village inn. He felt 
 that death was about to termiaate his 
 sufferings, and when he heard of the death 
 of his Agnes, he requested to be buried 
 by her side. Within three weeks after he 
 died, and his latest wish was fulfilled — he 
 was laid by the side of Agnes Percy, 
 and a rose-tree was planted over their 
 grave. 
 
PHEBE FORTUNE. 
 
 343 
 
 PHEBE FORTUNE. 
 
 I HAVE now been upwards of fortj years 
 minister of the parish of C — — . Soon 
 after I became miaistsr, I stumbled one 
 moi-ning upon a small parcel lying in a 
 turnip field adjoining the manse. It ap- 
 peared to me at first to be a large hedge- 
 hog ; but, upon further investigation, 1 
 found that it was a seemingly new-born 
 infant, wrapped carefully up in warm flan- 
 nel, and dressed in clothes which indicated 
 anything but extreme poverty. There 
 was a kirk-road through the turnip field 
 — my wonted passage to my glebe land 
 every morning ; and the infant had mani- 
 festly been deposited with a reference to 
 my habits. I could not possibly miss see- 
 ing it — it lay completely across my path — 
 a road almost untrod by anybody save 
 myself 
 
 As I happened to have a young, and a 
 pretty large — or, in other phrase, small — 
 family of my own, I hesitated at first how 
 to proceed ; but a moment's reflection 
 taught me the necessity of acting rather 
 than of thinking ; and I gathered up the 
 little innocent in my arms, and hastened 
 back, with all possible speed, to the manse. 
 The little hands of the helpless existence 
 were moving backwards and forwards, up 
 and down ; and its lips plainly indicated a 
 desire for its natural beverage. 
 
 '"' Bless me !" said my dear wife, as I 
 entered; '• bless rae, my dear, what's that 
 you are bringing us .^" 
 
 " It's a child," said I ; " an infant — 
 beautiful as day — only look at it." 
 
 " None of your nonsense," said spousie, 
 looking somewhat archly in my face. 
 " Tm sure, ye ken, we hae mae weans 
 than we hae meat for already. But where 
 in all the world did you pick up this sweet 
 little darling .?" — for, by this time, my 
 wife had opened the flannel coverings, and 
 
 examined the features of the young stran- 
 ger carefull}''. 
 
 My second youngest girl, about four 
 years of age, had joined us, and, falling 
 down on her knees, kissed the foundling's 
 cheeks all over. In fact, the news spread 
 all over the manse in less than no time ; 
 and I had my two eldest boys — then pre- 
 paring for school — my eldest daughter, and 
 the two maid-servants, all tumbling into 
 the parlor in a world of amazement My 
 wife, however, having recovered from her 
 first surprise, and burst of natural affection, 
 began, very naturally, to speculate about 
 the parentage of this uninvited visitant. 
 She examined its dress ; and, amongst 
 other discoveries, found a piece of paper 
 attached to the body of the frock, inscribed 
 with these words, in a plain printed hand 
 — '' I am not what I seem. My name is 
 P^e6e." On searching a little more par- 
 ticularly, a hundred-pound note was found 
 stitched into a small purse or bag, sus- 
 pended from the infant's neck. We were 
 all amazement. My wife was all at once 
 persuaded that the infant must be the off- 
 spring of some lady of high quality, and 
 that, by keeping her in our family, we 
 should be absolutely enriched by presents 
 of hundred-pound notes every other morn- 
 ing. She seemed to look upon poor Phebe 
 as the philosopher's stone, and thought 
 that gold would, in future, be as plentiful 
 in our house, as brass coinage had hitherto 
 been. But who could be the mother of 
 this pretty, sweet, dear, darling, lovely 
 child .^ Could it be— and she whispered 
 me knowingly in the ear ; but I shook my 
 head, and looked cquall}' knowing. Could 
 
 it be Lady M ? I looked incredulity, 
 
 and my wife pushed her speculations no 
 further. By this time my eldest daughter 
 had arranged Phebe's dress, and made all 
 
344 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 snuo- ; and the poor little infant gave au- 
 dible intimation of a desire for food. 
 What was to be done ? This question 
 occupied us for about a quarter of an hour, 
 when we at last recollected that Lord 
 
 C 's gardener's wife had yesterday 
 
 buried her infant. She was immediately 
 sent for, and, having no children of her 
 own, agreed, after some persuasion, and 
 the promise of a handsome reward, to 
 suckle poor Phebe. It was, indeed, beau- 
 tifully interesting to observe how Phebe 's 
 little hands wandered over the source of 
 her sustenance, and seemed to say, as 
 plainly as hands could speak it, " I have 
 you now, and will not part with you 
 again." Phebe grew — opened her sweet 
 blue eyes — smiled — and won all hearts in 
 the course of a month. But she was still 
 a heathen, or, in other words, unbaptized ; 
 and, after consulting the session, whom I 
 advertised of all the circumstances, it was 
 agreed that the gardener's wife should take 
 the vows, and name the child. We all 
 wept at the christening ; there was some- 
 thing so unusual and overpowering, so 
 mysterious and exciting, in the whole 
 transaction. My wife suggested that she 
 should be called " Phebe Monday," that 
 being the day on which she was found ; but, 
 somehow or other, I disliked the combina- 
 tion of sounds exceedingly ; and, at last, 
 at the suggestion of the nurse mother, we 
 affixed Fortune to her Christian designa- 
 tion ; and, after the ceremony, which was 
 performed in the gardener's house, we 
 drank a glass of ginger wine to the health 
 and long life of little Phebe Fortune, the 
 foundling. Through the kindness of Lord 
 
 C , I had the privilege of walking 
 
 when I chose in his extensive gardens and 
 pleasure-grounds, which were in my parish, 
 and adjoining to the manse ; and it was on 
 one of the smooth rolled grass walks of 
 this garden that I conducted little Phebe 's 
 first steps, when she put down her little 
 foot for the first time, and stood almost 
 erect on the grass. Oh, how the little 
 doll screamed and chuckled as she tumb- 
 
 led over and rolled about ; ever and anon 
 stretching out her little hand, and asking, 
 as it were, my assistance, in aiding her 
 inexperience and weakness. However, 
 " Tentando jimus fabri,'''' by efibrt fre- 
 quently repeated success is at last secured ; 
 and Phebe at last flew off from me like an 
 arrow, and, like an arrow, too, alighted, 
 head foremost, on the soft sward. Phebe 
 won all hearts when she began to syllable 
 people's names. Me she called " minny- 
 man ;" my wife, " minny-man-minny ;" 
 and her own nurse, " mother, ma, ma, 
 bonny ma! guid ma!" Year rolled on 
 after year, and little Phebe was the talk of 
 all the country round. People passing on 
 the highroad stopped and spoke to her. 
 Phebe used often to visit the manse, and 
 to play with my youngest daughter only a 
 few months younger than herself, whilst I 
 have often sat in my elbow chair, called in 
 the family " Snug," and said to myself, 
 " I am sure I cannot tell which of these 
 children I am most attached to." A.11 the 
 features and properties of little Phebe were 
 aristocratic : beautiful feet and ankles ; 
 small, little plump hands, and finely ta- 
 pered fingers ; an eye of the purest water 
 and of the most noble expression, beaming 
 through a curtain of deep blue, under a 
 canopy of the finest auburn ; a brow, nose, 
 lips, and chin, all exquisitely formed and 
 proportioned. No child in the neighbor- 
 hood could be compared with Phebe. 
 Even my wife, prejudiced as she naturally 
 was in favor of her own offspring, used 
 sometimes to say — " Our Jessie looks well 
 enough, but that child Phebe is a pear of 
 another tree." To this I readily assented, 
 as I had no inclination to hint even the 
 identity of the tree, or the affinity of the 
 fruit. 
 
 One day 1 was walking with little Phebe 
 (who had now attained her seventh year, 
 and exhausted the last penny of the hun- 
 dred pounds) in my own little garden — 
 we were quite alone, when the girl all at 
 once stopped her playfulness (for she was 
 now a very lark) , and, taking a hold r»f uiy 
 
PHEBE FORTUNE. 
 
 345 
 
 hand, pulled me gently, nothing loath, into 
 an adjoining little arbor ; after I was seat- 
 ed, and Phebe had taken her wonted sta- 
 tion betwixt my knees, reserving either 
 knee for future convenience, the little 
 angel looked up in my face so innocently 
 and so sweetly, saying — 
 
 " You are Jessie's pa, are not you ?" 
 "Yes," I replied, "my dear child, I 
 am." 
 
 " But where is my pa ? have I na pa .'' 
 Gardener says you know all about it." 
 
 I regretted exceedingly that anything 
 should have passed betwixt the foster- 
 parents and their charge, upon the subject ; 
 but since it was so, I judged it best at 
 once to tell the child the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. Phebe 
 looked me most intently in the face as I 
 proceeded, and, when I had finished by 
 kissing her, and assuring her that, whilst 
 I lived, she should never want a pa, the 
 poor dear burst into tears, exclaiming, in 
 an accent of complete misery — 
 
 " No pa ! no ma ! Everybody has pa's 
 and ma's but Phebe. Dear, dear minny" 
 — a term by which she still addressed me 
 — " can you not tell me anything about 
 my own ma .^" 
 
 I assured her that I could cot, having 
 not the least information on the subject. 
 
 " Maybe she's dead" — and here again 
 her feelings overcame her, and she laid 
 her head on my knee, with all its luxuriant 
 tresses ; and I felt the tears warm on my 
 person. 
 
 From this day Phebe Fortune became a 
 different child. Even at an early age she 
 had learned to think ; but had been 
 hitherto very averse to learning, or school 
 education. She was henceforth diligent 
 and attentive, making rapid progress in 
 reading, writing, and accounts. Her 
 foster-mother taught her sewing ; and lit- 
 tle Phebe, by the time she was eleven 
 years old, was quite accomplished in all 
 the necessary and useful parts of a female 
 education. But, alas ! the instability of 
 liuman affairs I — poor Phebe caught a fe- 
 
 ver, which she communicated to her foster- 
 mother, and which occasioned her death 
 in a few \Yeeks, whilst Phebe slowly reco- 
 vered. The gardener's heart was broken 
 — he had long been subject to occasional 
 fits of low spirits. Whether from accident 
 OY not was never fully ascertained, nor 
 even closely investigated ; but he was 
 found one morning drowned, in a pond of 
 water which ornamented the east corner of 
 the gardeii ground. As my own family 
 was numerous, and my stipend limited, I 
 behoved to endeavor to place Phebe in 
 some way of doing for herself — still hoping, 
 however, that time, ere long, would with- 
 draw the veil, and discover the sunny side 
 of Phebe Fortune's history. Seldom did 
 a carriage pass the manse by the kind's 
 highway, that my wife did not conjecture 
 that it might perhaps stop at the bottom 
 of the avenue, and emit a fine lady, with 
 fine manners and a genteel tongue, to 
 claim our now highly interestino- ward. 
 But the perverse carriages persevered in 
 rolling rapidly along, till, at last, one fine 
 sunny afternoon, one did actually stop, 
 and out stepped the lady, middle-aored, 
 splendidly attired, and advanced towards 
 our habitation. My wife's heart was at 
 her mouth — she ran through the house in 
 a few seconds, from bottom to ton, had. 
 Phebe put into her best attire, and all di- 
 ligence served upon the dusting and clean- 
 ing of carpets and chairs. The lady 
 appeared ; but, to my wife's great disap- 
 pointment, proved to be no other than an 
 old pupil of ray own, who, in passing, had 
 heard of my residence, and wished kindly 
 to renew an acc^uaintanee, interrupted by, 
 perhaps, not less than thirty years. Still 
 my wife would not give up the notion that 
 
 Phebe resembled Lady D exceedingly, 
 
 and that Lady D seemed to eye her 
 
 with more complacency than any of the 
 rest of the children. In the course of 
 conversation, I had oeca^on to acknow- 
 ledge that the beautiful being whom Lady 
 
 D admired above all the rest of ray 
 
 fine family, was a foundling. This led to 
 
546 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 a detail of the whole matter ; and Lady 
 
 D _, having conversed for a littls while 
 
 with Phebe, took such a liking to the girl, 
 that she proposed having her continually 
 about her person, as a kind of superior 
 waiting-maid, half menial and half compa- 
 nion, and to remove her from under our 
 roof on the instant. Altho-ugh this was an 
 offer too good and too opportune to be ne- 
 gatived, yet we could not think of parting 
 ■with our darling Phebe oa so short a 
 warning ; and, after some remonstrances 
 OQ both sides, it was agreed that the car- 
 riao-e should be sent for Phebe and me on 
 41 future day, which was named, and that 
 J should spend a few days with my old 
 pupil, in her recently acquired and lately 
 inhabited maosion-house of Rosehall, little 
 more than thirty miles distant. The in- 
 terval which took pk<3e betwixt this pro- 
 posal and its accomplishment, was spent 
 IB needlework, and other little feminine 
 preparations ; and, as the day approached, 
 we all felt as if we could have wished that 
 we had rejected the proposal with disdain. 
 Phebe was often seen in tears — but she 
 "was all resignation, and rejoiced that I was 
 to accompany her, and see her fairly en- 
 tered. At last, the dreadful carriage, with 
 its four horses, came into view, at the foot 
 of our avenue (which, though possessed of 
 a sufficiently imposing appellation, was 
 nothing more nor less than a very bad and 
 nearly impassable cart-road), and we all 
 beffau our march to meet the vehicle. 
 Promises of future visits were spoken of, 
 and made, and solemnly sworn to — a home, 
 house, our manse was declared to Phebe 
 at all times ; but, particularly, should she 
 find herself unhappy in her new position ; 
 and it was with difficulty that I got the 
 now truly lovely, and all but woman, 
 Phebe, torn from the grasp and cling of 
 my daughters, and handed into the splen- 
 did and richly lined chariot. 
 
 In the family of Lady D , Phebe 's 
 
 duties were at once easy and agreeable. 
 She waited upon her mistress's bell in the 
 morning, and was soon taught how to assist 
 
 at the toilet. During the day, she either 
 read aloud, whilst her Ladyship reposed 
 after her forenoon's walk or drive, or 
 looked after the health and comfort of two 
 favorite lap-dogs. At night, again, she 
 renewed her closet assistance, reading 
 aloud some paragraph which she had 
 marked in a newspaper, and detailing such 
 little domestic incidents as came within 
 the range of her somewhat limited sphere 
 
 of observation. Lord D was much 
 
 engaged in public business (being lord- 
 lieutenant of the county), and in carrying 
 on some agricultural speculations by which 
 he was much engrossed. There were two 
 young Honorables of the fair sex, and an 
 only son — then attending his studies at 
 Oxford — children of the family. Phebe 
 Fortune was now fifteen, and seemed to 
 increase in loveliness, and the most kindly, 
 intelligent expression of countenance, daily. 
 Her eyes were heaven's own blue — 
 
 "The little halcyon's ar.ure plume 
 Was never half so blue," 
 
 And then, when she spoke or smiled, her 
 countenance was altogether overpowering ; 
 as well might you have attempted to look 
 stedfastly upon the sun in his midday ra- 
 diance Of her far more truly and forcibly 
 mio-ht it have been said or sunj, than of 
 the " Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks" — 
 
 *< She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, 
 She charmed my soul. I wat na hoo ; 
 
 But aye the stound, the deadly wound 
 Cam frae her een sae bonny blue." 
 
 Phebe, by my own arrangement with Lady 
 
 D , was not exposed to any intimacy 
 
 with the servants, male or female. She 
 had her own apartment and table ; and all 
 the menial duties were performed to her 
 as regularly as to any branch of the family. 
 It was soon after my return from a three 
 weeks' visit at Rosehall, that 1 received 
 the following letter from Phebe. I got it 
 at the post-office, unknown to any of my 
 family ; and I kept it, as was my custom 
 when 1 had anything agreeable to commu- 
 nicate, till after dinner. The board hav- 
 ! ing been cleared, and a tumbler of warm 
 toddy made, my wife's single glass having 
 
PHEBE FORTUNE. 
 
 347 
 
 been filled out, and my daughters having 
 turned them all ear, 1 proceeded to read 
 the following maiden epistle of Phebe 
 Fortune : — 
 
 " Dear, dear Papa, and ever dear Mam- 
 ma, and all my own Sisters dear, — I am 
 happy here ; Lady D is so kind to 
 
 me ; and Lord D- 
 
 looks 
 
 very 
 
 too, though he has not spoken to me yet 
 — but then you see he is always engaged ; 
 and the honorable young ladies — but I do 
 not think they are quite so kind ; and they 
 are so pretty too, and so happy looking ! 
 Oh, I wish they would like me ! If they 
 would only speak to me now and then as 
 they pass me on the stair ; but they only 
 stop and laugh to one another, and then 
 they toss their heads ; and I can hear them 
 say something about ' upsetting,' and 
 ^ mamma's whim, and papa's absurdity.' 
 Pm sure — Pm sure, my dear parents — (for 
 alas ! I have none other, though I dream 
 sometimes that I have, and I feel so happy 
 and delighted that I always awake crying) 
 — but what was I going to say ? — you 
 know I never wrote any letters before, and 
 you will excuse this I know — 1 could not, 
 I am sure, speak of whim or absurdity in 
 regard to you, my dear benefactors. But 
 
 I will try never to mind it. Lady D 
 
 is so very kind. I sometimes go out with 
 the little dogs, Poodle and Clara ; they 
 are such deaf pets, I could take them, and 
 do often take them to my bosom. And 
 then, the other day, when I was sitting 
 playing with Clara and Poodle, beneath 
 the elm tree, the gardener's son passed 
 me, and — no he did not pass, that is to 
 say not all at once — but he stopped, and 
 asked me to take a flower, which he had 
 pulled for me, which I did, and then he 
 offered to show me through the hot-hous- 
 es, but I did not go. My dear mamma, 
 do you think I should have gone ? And 
 then he left me ; but yesterday a little 
 boy gave me the following letter. And all 
 that the letter contained is this — 
 
 '• If you love me as I love thee, 
 W^iat a lovia^ couple we saall be !" 
 
 kind 
 
 Love him ! — oh, no — no — no — I will nev- 
 er, never walk that way again — I will 
 never, never speak to him more. 1 love 
 you, my own dear papa, and mamma, and 
 
 my sisters, and Lady D , and the two 
 
 little dear doggies ; but 1 never could love 
 Donald M'Naughton ; not but that he is 
 good-looking, too, and young, and respect- 
 ed in the family ; but he never can be a 
 father or a mother to mo you know, as 
 you have been. Oh ! do write me soon, 
 soon — and tell me all about the garden, 
 and the ash-tree, and the arbor, and the 
 flowers, and old Neptune your favorite, 
 and everything. 
 
 I remain, most affectionately yours, 
 Phebe Fortune. 
 •' P.S. — But Fortune is not my name. 
 Oh, that I had a name worth writing ! — 
 such a name as Lindsay, Crawford, 
 Hamilton, Douglas. Oh ! how beautifully 
 Phebe Douglas would look on paper, and 
 sound in one's ears !'' 
 
 Such was the state of Phebe'smind and 
 feelings at that interesting period of life 
 when the female is in the transition from 
 the mere girl to the real woman ; and it 
 was about this very period, when all the 
 feelings are peculiarly alive to each fine 
 impulse, that it fell to Phebe's lot to be 
 severely tried. Day after day, and week 
 after week, Lady D missed some val- 
 uable article of dress, some Flanders lace, 
 some costly trinket, a ring it might be, or 
 
 a bracelet. At last Lady D thought 
 
 it proper to inform her lord of the fact, 
 who, upon obtaining a search warrant un- 
 known to any one save his lady, had the 
 trunks of the whole household establish- 
 ment strictly searched. Poor Phebe's 
 little chest, " wi' her a' in't," discovered, 
 to the amazement of all, the whole lot of 
 the missing articles. Lady D look- 
 ed as if she had been suddenly struck with 
 lightning ; whilst poor Phebe regarded the 
 whole as a jest, a method adopted by her 
 Lady or his Lordship, to try her charac- 
 ter and firmness. She absolutely laughed 
 
 kr: 
 
348 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 at the denouement, and seemed altogether 
 unconcerned about the matter. This, to 
 his Lordship in particular, appeared to be 
 a confirmation of guilt ; and he immedi- 
 ately ordered her person to be secured, 
 evidence of her guilt to be made out, and 
 a criminal trial to be instituted. When 
 the full truth dawned upon poor Phebe, 
 she sat as one would do who is vainly en- 
 deavorino- to recollect somethino; which 
 nas escaped her memory. Her color 
 left her ; she was pale as Parian mar- 
 ble ; her eyes became dim, and her ears 
 rang ; she fainted ; and it was not till 
 after great and repeated exertion that she 
 was recovered, through the usual painful 
 steps, to a perception of the outward 
 world. She looked wildly around her. 
 Lady D was standing with her hand- 
 kerchief at her eyes — she had wept 
 aloud. 
 
 " O Phebe," said her Ladyship, " are 
 you guilty of this ?" 
 
 Phebe repeated the word " guilty" 
 
 twice, looked wildly on Lady D 's 
 
 eyes, and then, in an unsettled and alarmed 
 manner, all round the room. 
 
 " Guilty !" she repeated—^' Guilty of 
 what? Who is guilty ? It is not he. I 
 am sure he could not be guilty. Oh, no 
 — no —no — he is my father, my friend, my 
 protector, my minny, my dear, dear minny 
 — he could not do it! he never did it! 
 You are all wrong ! — and my poor, poor, 
 head, is odd — odd — odd !" Thus saying, 
 she clasped her forehead in a frenzied 
 manner, and nature again came to her re- 
 lief in a second pause of insensibility, from 
 which she only recovered to indicate that 
 her remaining faculties had seemingly left 
 her. Time, however, gradually awakened 
 her to a perception of the sad reality ; and 
 it was from a chamber in the castle, to 
 which she was confined, that she wrote the 
 following letter to her original and kind 
 protector : — 
 
 " Oh, my ever dear Friend, — Your 
 Phebe is accused of — 1 cannot write 
 
 it, I cannot bear to look at the hor- 
 rid word — of stealing. Oh, that you bad 
 let me lie where the wickedness of an un- 
 known parent exposed my helpnessness to 
 the random tread of the passenger ! Oh, 
 come and see me ; I grow positively con- 
 fused ; your Phebe is imprisoned in her 
 own chamber ; but my poor head is swim- 
 ing again — there — there — I see everybody 
 whirling about on the chimney-tops — there 
 they go — there they go ! I can only see 
 to write Phebe." 
 
 There was no date to this sad^ scrawl ; 
 but it needed none ; for in twenty-four 
 hours after it had arrived at the manse, I 
 had set out on my way to Rosehall. The 
 meetins: betwixt the foster-father and the 
 child was, of course, exceedingly affecting. 
 Investigations into the whole matter were 
 renewed ; but no other way could be 
 thought of for accounting for the presence 
 of the missing property in Phebe"s locked 
 trunk, than the supposition which implied 
 her guilt. 
 
 '' I could stake my life, my salvation," 
 said I, " on Phebe's innocence." But 
 
 Lord D doubted ; his Lady could not 
 
 have believed it possible ; but still there 
 were, she said, similar cases on record — 
 one, quite in point, had just occurred in 
 her neighborhood, where the guilty party 
 had, up to the dishonest act, borne a very 
 high character. The circuit trial came 
 on in about ten days, and Phebe, accom- 
 panied by the minister, and the best legal 
 advice, was seated at the bar on her trial. 
 Witnesses were examined, who swore that 
 they saw the trunk opened, and Lady 
 D 's property discovered ; others, par- 
 ticularly the lady's maid, swore that she 
 all along suspected Phebe, from seeing her 
 always shutting, and often locking her 
 door inside. She once looked through 
 the key-hole, and saw Phebe busied with 
 her trunk ; she saw something in her hand 
 that sparkled. Phebe had no exculpatory 
 evidence but her simple averment that she 
 knew not how the articles came there — 
 
PHEBE FORTUNE. 
 
 349 
 
 she never brought them. The king's ad- 
 vocate havino; restricted the sentence, and 
 the jury having brought in unanimously a 
 verdict of guilty, the judge was on the 
 point of pronouncing a sentence of banish- 
 ment, when the poor pannel fainted. It 
 was a most affecting scene to hear the sen- 
 tence of banishment pronounced over a 
 piece of insensate clay. All wept — even 
 the judge ; and Phebe was carried out of 
 the court, apparently quite dead. 
 
 Next morninsr I was found sittino; with 
 a cheerful countenance by Phebe's couch, 
 in the prison-house. I had good news, I 
 said, to impart to her : — 
 
 " The girl who has been the principal 
 witness against you, has been suddenly 
 seized, during the night, with an excruci- 
 ating and evidently fatal disease ; in the 
 agonies of death she has confessed to me, 
 
 and in the presence of Lady D too, 
 
 that she had sworn to a lie ; that she her- 
 self, with her own hand, and by means of 
 a false key, placed the articles — which she 
 had originally stolen with the view of re- 
 taining them — in your chest. This she 
 had done from jealousy, having observed 
 that her lover, the gardener's son, had fix- 
 ed his affections upon you." 
 
 All this was solemnly attested in the 
 presence of witnesses, and all this was 
 conveyed in a suitable manner to the 
 judge ; in consequence of which, and 
 through the usual preliminary steps, Phebe 
 was set free, and again admitted into the 
 full confidence and the friendship of the 
 family. 
 
 It so happened, that a young nobleman 
 had witnessed the whole trial from the 
 bench, and had taken an exceeding inter- 
 est in Phebe, whose beautiful and modest 
 demeanor and countenance not even des- 
 pair could entirely disfigure. Having 
 made some inquiries respecting her histo- 
 ry, he was led to make more, and disco- 
 vered considerable emotion when I unfold- 
 ed the whole truth to him. Still he said 
 nothing, but took his departure, with many 
 thanks for the information given. In a 
 
 few days this same young nobleman, of re- 
 markably fine features and pleasing ex- 
 pression, returned to the Manse of C •, 
 
 having an elderly gentleman in the car- 
 riage along with him. He requested a 
 private interview with me ; and, in the 
 presence of his friend, I travelled over 
 again the whole particulars of the found- 
 ling's story, comparing dates, and investi- 
 gating seeming inconsistencies. At last, 
 he declared, at once, and in tears of 
 amazement and joy — " Phebe Fortune is 
 my own — my only sister .'" I looked in- 
 credulous, and almost hinted at insanity ; 
 but the young nobleman still persevered 
 in his averment. His father, a nobleman 
 of hio-h rank, far south of the Tweed, in 
 order to gratify a passion which had driven 
 him almost mad, had consented to pretend 
 to marry privately (his own father being 
 still alive, and set upon his son's marrying 
 
 his cousin the Honorable Miss D ) a 
 
 most beautiful girl, the daughter of a 
 Chester yeoman of high respectability. 
 The lady was removed from her native 
 home, and lodged in a remote quarter oi 
 the town of Liverpool. A report was fa- 
 bricated, and spread abroad by means of 
 the newspapers, that a lady, who was mi- 
 nutely described, had jumped one evening 
 into a boat, and, being rowed, at her re- 
 quest, to some distance, had plunged into 
 the sea, and perished. Phebe's parents 
 investigated the matter, as far as the boat- 
 man's evidence was concerned, and were 
 satisfied, from his description of her per- 
 son, that their dear Phebe, who, for some 
 time past, had appeared troubled and even 
 dispirited, had adopted suicide as a refuge 
 from all her earthly cares. Phebe and 
 
 the Honorable Mr. L met frequently 
 
 in secret, and a daughter was the fruit of 
 their interviews. This daughter the 
 young nobleman proposed to put out to 
 nurse ; but in reality, to put beyond the 
 reach of being ever recognised as his. A 
 confidential person was obtained, herself a 
 Scotchwoman, to carry the child into 
 Fife, and there to expose it, under the 
 
350 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 circumstances and with the provision al- \ 
 ready mentioned. This person chanced | 
 to be a parishioner of mine, and the con- i 
 sequences were as ah-cady described, i 
 Havino- executed her task, she married a 
 soldier, with whom she soon after sailed i 
 for our West India settlements. Phebe's ! 
 second birth proved to be a male ; and I 
 the boy was about to be removed in a si- 
 milar manner from the mother, when she 
 absconded from her now tyrannical hus- 
 band and her concealed home, refusing to 
 be again separated from her own offspring. 
 Her parents, who had regarded her as 
 dead, were sufficiently surprised, but by 
 no means gratilied, when Phebe appeared 
 again with the child in her arms. In the 
 
 meantime, Lord L died, and the 
 
 Honorable youth became Baron L of 
 
 Houston-hope. Poor Phebe's averment 
 respecting her previous marriage was re- 
 garded, even by her parents, as somewhat 
 suspicious ; and not being able to com- 
 mand the testimony of the person who 
 had married them, she was compelled to 
 remain silent. The effort, however, soon 
 cost her her life ; and the boy, by his ac- 
 knowledged father's interest, was placed 
 in the arm}^, and sent out to the West 
 Indies. There he accidentally met with 
 the woman his mother had often mentioned 
 to him, who had carried off his sister. She 
 confessed the whole truth to him ; and, 
 after a year or two, they both returned in 
 the same ship to England. By this 
 time, the noble husband, being free to 
 dispose of his hand in matrimony, pro- 
 posed, not for his cousin, as his father had 
 contemplated, but for the daughter of an 
 exceedingly wealthy Liverpool merchant. 
 I This person happened to be a near relative 
 I of him who had called what was deemed 
 only a pretended priest to perform the 
 marriage ceremony ; and, seeing the dan- 
 ger which his relative would run, should he 
 give away his daughter, in hopes of her 
 offspring hoiring the title and property, 
 when a logithnatc heir probably existed, 
 he divulged the secret to his relations. 
 
 This naturally led to a denouement ; and 
 
 Lord L being thus frustrated in his 
 
 object, and being at the same time a per- 
 son governed more by passion thanrea-son, 
 shot the person who had deceived him 
 through the arm ; and then, thinking that 
 he had committed murder, he blew out his 
 own biains. 
 
 The brother of Phebe, after a long and 
 complicated legal investigation, was de- 
 clared and served heir to the title and vast 
 property. Taking' the clergyman who had 
 married his mother alons: with him, he 
 had gone into Scotland, partly to visit his 
 uncle. Lord D , and partly, by the as- 
 sistance of the priest and Scotchwoman, 
 to discover what had become of his sister. 
 Her likeness to himself and his mother 
 had struck him forcibly in court, and the 
 investigation and discovery followed. 
 
 To describe the interview betwixt the 
 brother and sister is far beyond my 
 power. Every heart will appreciate it 
 more than ink and paper can possibly 
 express. It was a pure — a long — a ter- 
 rible embrace ; but it spoke volumes, 
 heart met heart, and lips were glued to 
 lips, till breathing became inconvenient. 
 All parties rejoiced. Phebe, on her way 
 south along with her brother, spent a 
 whole day at the Manse. I was absolut-e- 
 ly insane with joy ; and my wife told me 
 privately — " My dear, our fortune is 
 made ; we'll get all our boys out to India 
 now." My daughters, too, kissed and 
 fondled their sister, " and all went merry 
 as a marriage bell." 
 
 " How sweet is pleasure after pain I" 
 
 The contrast of Phebe's fortune greatly 
 enhanced the enjoyment ; and, in the 
 space of a few short months, Phebe For- 
 tune was married to her own cousin, the 
 
 son of Lord and Lady D , her kind 
 
 protectors. The old couple are still 
 alive ; but their children, with a numer- 
 ous offspring, live upon one of their es- 
 tates in Ayrshire, and exhibit to all around 
 them the blessings which a humane and 
 generous aristocracy may disseminate 
 
THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 351 
 
 amidst neighbors and dependents. The 
 brother of Phebe, Lord L — 
 
 -, still re- 
 mains a bachelor ; but has proved to his 
 mother's relatives, as well as to the par- 
 ties who befriended her by deceiving his 
 dishonorable parent, that he feels the ob- 
 ligation, and rewards it, by making them 
 one way or another entirely independent. 
 
 I go my weekly rounds amongst those 
 now happy families, and have experienced 
 the truth of my wife's prophecy ; for both 
 my boys are advantageously disposed of, 
 attd, on the marriarge of my eldest daugh- 
 ter, Phebe Fortune made her a present 
 of one thousand pounds. 
 
 -^.O"*- 
 
 THE POACHEE'S PROGRESS. 
 
 The poacher is a common character ; and, 
 although there is no guilt in his occupa- 
 tion itself, yet he who is in the everyday 
 practice of breaking the laws of man, from 
 the very habits and fears attendant upon 
 such practice, nnconsciously becomes ready 
 to break the laws of his JNIaker. The sin 
 is as small on the part of a poor man kill- 
 ing a bird or a leveret for gain, as on the 
 part of a rich man killing it for amuse- 
 ment. Yet I have seldom known a con- 
 firmed poacher who did not eventually 
 become a person of reckless and desperate 
 character. His living in the constant fear 
 of detection — the jeopardy of his calling — 
 the secrecy of his actions — insensibly 
 blunt and destroy his better feelings and 
 principles ; and 1 have often thought that 
 our game-laws are laws made for the amuse- 
 ment of the rich, at the expense of the 
 morals of the poor. But, to drop this, I shall 
 briefly sketch the progress of a poacher. 
 
 Adam Black was the son of a farmer of 
 the old school, who rented some hundred j 
 acres near a part of the debatable grounds i 
 between Roxburgh and Northumberland, j 
 Adam received a respectable education ; j 
 but he was of idle habits from his boyhood 
 upwards. It is but seldom that we hear 
 much good of a person who is given to 
 idleness ; and we have a proverb that 
 says, ^' If the devil find a man idle, he 
 
 generally sets him to work." There is 
 much truth in the adage. Yet, it may 
 almost be said, that, instead of being 
 tempted, an idle man actually holds out a 
 temptation to the tempter — he invites him 
 to his destruction. I have said, however, 
 that Adam Black was idle from his youth. 
 When he became a lad, no portion of his 
 thoughts was given to the business of the 
 farm. Give Adam his dog and his gun, 
 and that was all he desired, all he cared 
 for. He turned a deaf ear to the admoni- 
 tions of his father, and the counsels of his 
 mother were laughed at. His gun by day, 
 and his gins or his snares by night, were 
 the sole occupants of his thoughts. But 
 as yet he was not vicious ; and his only 
 faults were, that he was given to idleness 
 and poaching. He, perhaps, had a re- 
 deeming quality in the warmness of his 
 heart, if it was not more than counter- 
 balanced by the excess of his passions ; 
 for he was headstrong, vehement, revenge- 
 ful. 
 
 At the age of three-and-twenty, and 
 while he yet lived with his father, Adam 
 married. His parents ofiPared no opposi- 
 tion to his wishes, for the object of his 
 choice was a maiden of sweet and gentle 
 disposition, and of blameless character ; 
 and, though poor, they trusted that her 
 influence would arouse their son to habits 
 
352 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 of industiy and exertion. Some said that 
 she had made a good match, because, be- 
 ing the daughter of a simple shepherd, she 
 had married the only son of a farmer ; but 
 there were others who observed more 
 closely, and who saw deeper, that shook 
 their heads, and said, " she was too good 
 for his wife." But it is frequently difficult 
 to account for a woman's affections ; the 
 cause that produced them is often as mys- 
 terious, as their depth is intense. A thou- 
 sand bards have sung of Woman's Love ; 
 and, although 
 
 " nae poet in a sense, 
 But just a rhymer like, by chance." 
 
 I shall interrupt my story for a minute's 
 space, to sing of it also. 
 
 Say not it is the flickering flame 
 That all have felt — that all must feel — 
 
 Which comes, and goeth as it came — 
 That fleeteth. changeth. as the wheel 
 
 Of caprice or young fancy turns ; 
 Nay, 'tis the strong, the deep emotion 
 Of the full heart whose fixed devotioK 
 
 Through adverse fate and coldness burns, 
 That marks a woman's love. 
 
 Oh, 'tis a glad, a holy glow — 
 An angel's dream — a seraph's bliss — 
 
 A theft from heavenly joy to know — 
 To feel, to own, to know but this : 
 
 That there is one — a lovely one — 
 The life, the partner of our being— 
 Who, all our faults and follies seeing, 
 
 Can love, and love but us alone. 
 
 With all a woman's love. 
 
 Within her bosom is a fire 
 
 That burneth with a light divine, 
 V/hich, when opposing ills conspire 
 
 To cloud the soul will burst — will shine 
 Within, around — and joyous throw 
 
 A ray of hope o'er him she loveth, 
 
 Till heaven the kindred flame approveth, 
 And half the pain of fate— of wo, 
 
 Is lost in woman's love. 
 
 Such a woman became the wife of Adam 
 Black ; but although he was proud of her 
 love, though he was conscious of it and 
 jealous of it, he had not principle enough 
 within him to appreciate it. She, there- 
 fore, produced no abiding change upon his 
 habits ; and although, in a measure, he 
 was broken from them for a time, within 
 three months he returned to them as the 
 swine doth to its wallowino- in the mire. 
 For some weeks she occupied his thoughts, 
 
 and her words had influence ; but he re- 
 turned again to his dog and to his gun — 
 her counsel became irksome — he reec-ived 
 it peevishly, and he thought as little of 
 her as of his duties on the farm. 
 
 Within the first year after his marriage 
 his mother died ; and in the third year, a 
 paralytic stroke fell upon his father, as 
 though Death had tapped him on the 
 shoulder, saying, " Come." The old man 
 felt that his days were numbered — that the 
 last warning had been given ; and he called 
 his son to his bedside, and said — 
 
 '' Adam ! 1 am about to leave you ; and, 
 O man, will ye listen to a faither's dying 
 advice .^" 
 
 " Yes, faither !" cried Adam — for J 
 have said that he was warm-hearted — and 
 he wept as he spoke. 
 
 " Oh, then, my son," continued the old 
 man, " hearken to my last words — the last 
 words o' yer faither, Adam, i dinna say 
 that ye are vicious, but, oh ! ye has been 
 thoughtless — ye are far from what I would 
 wish to see ye. It isna meikle that I hae 
 to leave ye ; but if ye dinna take care o't, 
 it will waste frae amang yer hands like 
 snaw aff a dyke. Ye are now also a faither, 
 and a young family are rising around ye ; 
 and, oh, for their sakes, and for the sake 
 o' the mother that bore them, see that ye 
 set them the example o' a Christian, that 
 they may not rise up as witnesses against 
 you at the great day. Do ye hear me, 
 Adam ? O my son, say that ye will follow 
 your faither's dying injunction, and 1 will 
 die in peace." 
 
 Adam wrung his father's hand, and hid 
 his face upon the bed to conceal his ago- 
 ny. " It's enough," said the dying man 
 — " thank God, the voice of conscience is 
 not dumb in the breast of my bairn ! " 
 
 On the death of his father, Adam be- 
 came the occupier of the farm ; but he 
 neglected it, and I need not say that in re- 
 turn, fortune neglected him. His fields 
 and his crops became a jest among his 
 neighbors, and the former they called 
 " Idle Adam's pleasure-grounds." But 
 
THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 353 
 
 the lease expired, and, because he had 
 been a slothful tenant, the landlord refused 
 to renew it. 
 
 The money which his father had left 
 him, was reduced to about a hundred 
 pounds, when he was compelled to leave 
 the farm, and he removed with his family 
 to a small cottage which stood on the road- 
 side, in a lonely part of the country, and 
 about ten miles from the farm on which he 
 had been brought up. Here Adam took 
 up his abode, as though the hundred pounds 
 would provide for his family for ever. 
 
 He did nothing, save to prowl about be- 
 hind the hedges with his gun over his arm, 
 or, in the dead of night, to rob the pre- 
 serves of the gentlemen in the neighbor- 
 hood. His poor wife strove anxiously, 
 and with tears, to reclaim him — to arouse 
 him to honest exertion. She reminded him 
 of the destitution that was creeping around 
 them, and every day narrowing its circle. 
 She drew her infant children round his 
 knees, and implored him to provide for 
 them. But his answer was, " We shall 
 do well enough — I will be my own mas- 
 ter." 
 
 ''■ A}^," replied she, " and the slave of 
 the law !" 
 
 " Hang the law !" returned he ; " what 
 care 1 for the law !" 
 
 For a time their cottage had an appear- 
 ance of cleanliness and neatness, but gradu- 
 ally it began to exhibit the marks of 
 poverty and wretchedness, as her spirit 
 broke, and she found her love lost, and 
 her counsel of no avail. Old garments 
 supplied the place of glass in one-half of 
 the window — the well-scoured and sanded 
 threshold was no longer visible, but stag- 
 nant water lay in little pools before the 
 door, and around them ragged and squalid 
 children quarrelled with each other. 
 
 They were sent to no school — it was but 
 little instruction that their mother could 
 give them ; and the little she endeavored 
 to give, the example of their father de- 
 stroyed. The only education they re- 
 ceived was such as would enable them to 
 
 VOL. ir. GO 
 
 become poachers like himself; and before 
 the eldest was seven years of age, he was 
 sent to the neighboring towns to sell the 
 game which his father had destroyed. 
 
 People wondered how Adam Black 
 lived, for he wrought none ; and although 
 they knew him to be a poacher, they could 
 not see how by such means he provided 
 food for himself and family. And although 
 his children were in rags, and his wife 
 never seen, his appearance approached 
 what might be termed respectable. He 
 wore a large velvet coat, made after the 
 fashion of a sportsman's, and, in general, 
 his vest and trousers were of the same 
 material. Every day his voice was heard 
 in the ale-house of a nei2;hborino- villao-e, 
 and by his side, orl such occasions, crouch- 
 ed a dog of the pointer breed — a living 
 emblem of hunger and leanness. 
 
 But famine often pressed hard upon the 
 family ; and when he would have wrought 
 for them, no one would employ him ; and 
 once, when want gnawed at his heart, and 
 remorse stung his soul, he would have lift- 
 ed up his hand against his own life, had 
 not the daughter of a Mr. Nisbet, who 
 was the clergyman of the parish, at the 
 very moment, like an angel of mercy, visit- 
 ed the cottage, and having heard of the 
 destitution of its inmates, come to relieve 
 them. 
 
 Such was the life of the poacher for 
 several years, and as yet he had been guil- 
 ty of no actual crime. He had carried on 
 his trade without detection, defying the 
 law, and laughing the landed proprietors 
 around him, and their gamekeepers, to 
 scorn. At length he was caught in the 
 preserve of a gentleman in the neighbor- 
 hood, with three pheasants in the bao- 
 which he carried by his side. He resisted 
 the attempt to seize him — he levelled his 
 fowling-piece, and fired upon his assailants ; 
 but they were not injured, and it was be- 
 lieved that he did not fire with the wish 
 of wounding them. He, however, was 
 made prisoner, tried, and sentenced to 
 transportation for seven years. No one 
 
354 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 made application for a mitigation of the 
 punishment, and it was carried into effect. 
 On his departure, his neglected wife 
 roused herself from the lethargy of despair 
 which his habits had brought upon her 
 spirit. She refused parish relief, and the 
 farmers around admired her conduct and 
 pitied her distress. She became washer- 
 woman and laundress to all the respecta- 
 ble families around her ; and when she 
 had toiled as such in their houses, yet even 
 at midnight the lamp was seen flickering 
 in her cottage, and the stranger who passed 
 it heard the busy sound of her spinning- 
 wheel. She taught her little daughters 
 to knit, and she sent them to gather wool 
 amono-gt the whins and hedges Her sons 
 were employed on the suiTOunding farms, 
 and each, in their turn, she sent for a quar- 
 ter of a year to the parish school. The 
 stagnant water was no longer seen at the 
 door, but again there appeared the clean 
 and sanded threshold — the old garments 
 were removed from the windows, and glass 
 supplied their place. She obtained the 
 respect of all who knew her, and the pity 
 they at first felt for her gave place to es- 
 teem. When the name of Janet Black 
 was mentioned, it was ever said that " she 
 deserved a better fate." Yet she often 
 mourned to Snd that her influence was in- 
 adequate wholly to eradicate the habits 
 which their father's example had instilled 
 into his children. 
 
 But seven years passed, and Adam 
 Black returned from being a convict in 
 the hulks to his family. When he enter- 
 ed the cottage, Janet sprang up and re- 
 ceived him with open arms. She had wept 
 over his punishment, but she had trusted 
 that it would effect a reformation of his 
 propensities. When she had called her 
 children around him, and desired him to 
 look now upon one, and now upon another, 
 to observe how they had grown, and to 
 tell him how they had wrought for her, 
 and how one had become a scholar, and 
 all could read, she again flung her arms 
 around his neck, and said — 
 
 " And now, dear Adam, we shall a' be 
 happy — for, after a', yours wasna a crime 
 that we need hang our heads about — it 
 was only what hundreds do daily — though 
 it maybe wasna richt. But ye winna be 
 looked down upon on account o't — for it 
 wasna like stealing — and I'm sure I'll be 
 able to get ye wark, for a' the gentry 
 round hae been kind to us.' 
 
 " Work !— ha !" muttered Adam sul- 
 lenly ; and he coldly acknwledged the 
 tenderness of his wife. 
 
 She saw, she felt, that he eared not for 
 her, and his indifference went to her heart. 
 Yet she fondly trusted, by her affection, 
 to win back his, and to lead bim also to 
 habits of industry. But her hope was 
 vain. To be doomed to wear the felon's 
 chain, and to mingle with convicts for 
 years, may be a punishment, and it may 
 make men worse than they were before 
 the law condemned them ; but that it can 
 reform them is all but impossible. It had 
 Wrought no reformation on Adam Black, 
 but it had rendered him more callous and 
 more desperate ; it had caused him to as- 
 sociate with wretches who made him ac- 
 quainted with crimes of which he had 
 never dreamed, and their habits gi'adually 
 became his habits, and their thoughts his 
 thouorhts. He had been sent amono;st 
 felons for killing a pheasant, and he re- 
 turned from amongst them capable of 
 murderincr a fellow-beins:. 
 
 Poor Janet shuddered at the words which 
 she heard him utter — for, with strange 
 and wicked oaths, he vowed vengeance on 
 the individual who had prosecuted him ; 
 and she flung her arms around his neck, 
 and kissed his forehead, yea, wept before 
 him, and prayed that he would be calm, 
 and tenderly, earnestly urged upon him 
 the duty of forgiveness to enemies ; but at 
 her entreaties, and the sight of her tender- 
 ness, he raged the more furiously. 
 
 " Away with your foolery, woman !"he 
 exclaimed, pushing her rudely from him j 
 *' talk not of forgiveness to me ! Have I 
 not worn the chains with which they de- 
 
THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 555 
 
 graded me — worn thera till the iron enter- 
 ed my flesh — yet you talk of forgiveness ' 
 Do not torment me — I shall be revenged !" 
 And he uttered words which we cannot 
 write. 
 
 He inquired for his gun ; and when in- 
 formed that it had been sold to clothe his 
 children during his absence, ho grated his 
 teeth together, and his eyes flashed with 
 indi^rnation — but he said little. He had 
 brought home a few pounds with him ; and, 
 on the day after his return, he visited the 
 ale-house which had before been his habit- 
 ual place of rendezvous. There also he 
 purchased a fowling-piece from an ac- 
 quaintance. He seized it eagerly in his 
 hands ; and, though he had manifested no 
 joy at the sight of his wife and children, 
 when he ao;ain handled his favorite instru- 
 ment, he leaped upon the floor, he examin- 
 ed it in every part, he almost pressed it to 
 his lips. 
 
 That very night he returned home laden 
 with game. 
 
 " O Adam ! Adam, man !" cried Janet, 
 as he flung the birds upon the table, 
 " have we no had enough o' this wark, 
 think ye, yet ? Has a' that ye hae suffer- 
 ed, and that we hae sufi"ered, no been a 
 lesson to ye ? O Adam ! will ye really 
 persevere in this dangerous course until ye 
 are torn frae your wife an' bairns again ? 
 O bairns !" added she, addressing her 
 children, ''for dearsake, tak thae birds 
 out o' my sight — burn them ! — bury them 
 in the yard ! — dinna let them remain be- 
 neath this roof ! O Adam ! for my sake 
 — for the sake o' your family — gie owre 
 this, an' I'll work for ye, dear — we'll a' 
 work for ye, till the bluid run owre our 
 finger-ends, if ye'll only be prevailed upon 
 to desist frae such a practice." 
 
 " VVheest, old fool !" said he, pushing 
 her roughly aside ; ''get the birds dress- 
 ed — it is long since I tasted the food I am 
 fondest of." 
 
 " No, Adam — no !" returned she, firm- 
 ly ; " rather wad I cut my hands aff than 
 touch a feather o' them." 
 
 " Idiot !" retorted he, stamping his 
 foot and scowling upon her ; and, order- 
 ing one of his daughters to prepare two of 
 the birds for supper, the poor girl looked 
 first anxiously at her mother, and then 
 tremblingly at her father, and obeyed him. 
 Janet sat sorrowful and silent for a few 
 moments, and tears ran down her cheeks. 
 He to whom she had given her young af- 
 fections, and from whom, unworthy as he 
 was, her heart had never swerved, had 
 looked upon her with coldness, he had 
 spoken to her with anger and contempt — 
 and these are hard things for a wife to 
 bear. She had endured sorrow, she had 
 suffered shame, for his sake, yet she felt 
 his present treatment worse than all. Yet 
 affection, and a desire for her husband's 
 reformation and safety, prevailed over 
 every other feeling, and she rose, her 
 countenance expressive of anxious and im- 
 ploring tenderness, and laid her hand on 
 his, and said earnestly — 
 " Dear Adam !" 
 
 "Dear devil!" rejoined the monster, 
 dashing away her hand, " has the woman 
 parted with the little sense she ever had ! 
 See that the girl cook those bii'ds right, 
 and let me have none of your preaching." 
 She sat down in silence, and endea- 
 vored, as she best could, to conceal the 
 agony of a blighted heart. 
 
 He returned to his old courses — drink- 
 ing by day, and poaching by night ; and 
 wasting not only the money which the 
 game he destroyed produced, but the 
 earnings also of his wife and family. 
 
 About twelve months after his return 
 from banishment, the two oldest of his 
 children fell sick of a fever and died ; 
 those that were left were unable to provide 
 for themselves ; and his heart-broken 
 wife became feeble of body and almost 
 imbecile of mind. Again the cottage 
 bore the impress of wretchedness. About 
 this time, also, sheep were frequently 
 stolen from the flocks of the gentleman 
 who had been accessary to his punishment. 
 Adam was suspected, and his cottage was 
 
356 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 searched ; but there was nothing found in 
 it that could criminate him, though the 
 conviction was strong on every mind that 
 he was the depredator. At length want 
 drove him from the cottage, and he re- 
 moved no one knew where, taking his wife 
 and children with him. 
 
 It has been mentioned that, at a time 
 when Adam Black's family were in want, 
 and when famine and remorse were goad- 
 ing him to destruction, their wants were 
 relieved by the daughter of a Mr. Nisbet, 
 who was the clergyman of the parish. 
 Now, it was about three years after the 
 poacher had left the scene of his depreda- 
 tions, that Mr. Nisbet proceeded to Edin- 
 burgh upon business, intending to return 
 in a few days. But, day after day, his 
 daughter looked for him in vain. He 
 came not, and no tidings were heard con- 
 cerning him. A messenger was dispatch- 
 ed to Edinburgh to inquire respecting 
 him ; and it was ascertained that he had 
 left that city in a coach which passed 
 within three miles of his manse, and there 
 it was found that he had left it to proceed 
 home on foot ; but, beyond this, no trace 
 of him could be found, though rewards 
 were offered and diligent search made 
 over the country. Many were the sur- 
 mises regarding his fate, but his disap- 
 pearance remained involved in mystery. 
 Some, remembering the character of the 
 poacher, and that suspicion would have 
 attached to him, said — •" Well, that is one 
 thino; idle Adam is innocent of." 
 
 At the period of her father's disappear- 
 ance, Mary Nisbet was not beyond the 
 age when reason, though not immature, is 
 least powerful, the world most alluring, 
 and sorrow wildest. She had been sud- 
 denly deprived of her only protector, her 
 only relative. But, educated as she had 
 been — the sole child of a country clergy- 
 man, springing up like a solitary but love- 
 ly flower in the wilderness, concentrating 
 in its own bright hues the colors of every 
 ray that the sun scattered over the barren 
 desert — she endeavored, by the precepts 
 
 her father had tauo;ht her, to subdue the 
 intensity of her feelings ; and, a few 
 months after his disappearance, partly to 
 beguile her grief, and partly from the hope 
 of hearing something that might throw 
 light upon his fate, she accepted an invi- 
 tation to visit a friend in Leith. 
 
 To cheer her melancholy, her friends 
 took her to visit every object of interest 
 in and around the Modern Athens ; though 
 at that period it had not the same claims 
 to the appellation that it has now. One 
 object only remained unvisited, an object 
 which few of her sex would be desirous of 
 beholding, Mary had never seen the in- 
 terior of a prison ; and, to the surprise of 
 her friends, she expressed a determination 
 to visit the city jail. She allowed it was 
 a strange wish, but she could not drive it 
 from her thoughts. On the following day, 
 they accompanied her to the gloomy abode 
 of iniquity and punishment, where crime, 
 like a tiger, crouches readj^ to spring upon 
 its victims as they enter, and complete 
 within the walls of a prison the work of 
 depravity it had already begun. 
 
 She shuddered as she beheld the keep- 
 ers, with suspicion written on their eye- 
 balls, slowly turn lock after lock, survey- 
 ing the visitors with jealous scrutiny as 
 they entered, and suddenly closing upon 
 them one massy door after another, till 
 they were enveloped in the innermost 
 places of guilt. And there, the profane 
 impenitence of fallen wretches, from the 
 grey-haired criminal to the felon of ten 
 years old, made humanity tremble and 
 Christianity bleed. There, ihe elder cor- 
 rupted the younger, laughed the lingering 
 fragments of conscience to scorn, and 
 developed the broad ways of vice. Some 
 few mourned over their first crime, and 
 trembled to think of the miserable futu- 
 rity that awaited them, when the days of 
 their punishment would be past, and they 
 should be ao;ain cast unon the world, the 
 shunned of society.* 
 
 * It is a desideratum amongst the benevolent in- 
 stitutions of our coan try, that, for the class of un- 
 
THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 357 
 
 They were showa into the cell of a 
 miserable being lying under sentence of 
 death for murder. He was seated on a 
 low stool in the darkest corner of his 
 dungeon, his elbows resting on his knees, 
 and his face buried in his hands. His 
 body rocked backward and forward con- 
 vulsively, his fetters clanked with the 
 melancholy motion, and his deep groans 
 at times burst forth, in the bitterness of 
 remorse, into an agonizing howl. He ap- 
 peared alike insensible of their approach 
 or their presence. They were about to 
 depart, when he started up in a paroxysm 
 of despair, and dashed his clenched hands 
 against his forehead. His eyes, which 
 were red with agony, fell upon Mary. 
 He sprang back — he seized his chains and 
 attempted to tear them from their fasten- 
 ings ; and, still riveting his eyes upon her 
 features, he uttered a wild scream, and, 
 as they were turning away in horror, ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Stay, Mary Nisbet — stay !" Her 
 heart throbbed fast and painfully, as she 
 heard her name thus suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly pronounced in such a place, and 
 by such a being, and she clung closer to 
 the arm of her friend : for there is some- 
 thing in the presence of a murderer from 
 
 fortunaie beings above referred to, there is no place 
 of refuge. When the period of their punishment 
 hasexpired, ihey are again driven upon the world, 
 without character, without friends — the outcasts 
 of society — despised, shunned, and nnpitied — per- 
 secuted by the virtuous, and welcomed only by 
 the vicious — willing to repent, but to them the 
 path of repentance is barricaded — with no hope, 
 and no means of subsistence but to return to their 
 former crimes ! There is surely enough of pity 
 and of Christian charity in the bosoms of the Bri- 
 tish puhlic to attempt the rescue of such. It is a 
 tearful thing to behold thousands of our fellow- 
 beings, who would willingly return to the arms of 
 honesty, driven again by necessity back upon guilt. 
 It should be enough to sa}'- unto philanthropy, 
 " Look upon these," thatthe work of their redemp- 
 tit)n might be begun. The amelioration of their 
 condition, however, would require a remedy 
 separate from an amendment of our prison disci- 
 pline, or an enactment of the legislature. 
 
 which the stoutest heart recoils, not with 
 fear, but horror. 
 
 "Hear me!" he cried — "turn not 
 away. Look upon me — know me ! Art 
 thou come to heap an orphan's curse upon 
 the doomed of Heaven and of man.? 
 Hear me ! my words are already steeped 
 in the fury of despair — they burn my own 
 throat ! Look on me — look on your father' s 
 murderer .'" As he said this, he again 
 howled wildly, and struck his head against 
 the wall. 
 
 " Miserable wretch ! — my father P ex- 
 claimed Mary. And, forgetful of her re- 
 cent horror, she sprang forward and 
 grasped him by the arm. 
 
 " Miserable indeed ! — lost — ruined for 
 ever !" screamed the wretched criminal. 
 Mary trembled, wept, and fell back upon 
 the shoulder of her friend. 
 
 " Ye have come to look on me as a 
 wild beast,'' continued the murderer, ve- 
 hemently ; " ye have thrust your hand 
 into its den, and it has not been with- 
 drawn unwounded. But look on me atrain, 
 and remember the features of a monster. 
 Twelve years ago, Mary '' 
 
 Here the wretched man burst into tears, 
 and wrung his hands upon his bosom. 
 " Thank Heaven !" said her friend, " tears 
 are the forerunners of repentance." 
 
 " Remorse ! remorse !" ejaculated the 
 hopeless critninai — " repentance is drown- 
 ed in the blood of my victims." He 
 paused a few moments, and again proceed- 
 ed — " Twelve years ago I sat beneath 
 your father's ministry. I resided in his 
 parish. death ! I was then guiltless ! — 
 yes, yes — I was guiltless then ! But what 
 am 1 now ? — a murderer ! — the murderer 
 of the very man who made me tremble at 
 sin. Look on me, Mary — remember me 
 now ! In the midst of the hard winter, 
 when labor was frozen up, and when I 
 would have wrought if any man would have 
 employed me, and when bread was buried 
 in the granaries of the rich, you saved me 
 from self-destruction — you saved my wife 
 from death, my children from starvation !" 
 
358 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 "Adam Black!" exclaimed Mary — 
 " wretched man ! can it be possible ?" 
 
 " It is possible,"' continued he ; "it is 
 true. You saved me from destroying 
 myself, and I have become the destroyer 
 of others. You snatched my wife from 
 death, and I have trampled on her bosom 
 — 1 have hurled her to a strange grave, 
 with a broken heart. You saved my 
 children from starvation, and I have blast- 
 ed them by my example, and they have 
 become a pestilence to society — they have 
 broken the law and endured its punish- 
 ment. O woman ! I have run the race of 
 the wicked — I have worn all the honors 
 of sin ! I started as a poacher and a drunk- 
 ard, and I have ended as a murderer. 
 Want, and the fear of detection of crimes 
 that I had committed, drove me from 
 your father's parish. I came to this city 
 — without a character, without principles, 
 without friends, and with no aim but to 
 live, though how I knew not. 1 became a 
 prowling fiend upon the streets, a house- 
 breaker and a robber, and an associate of 
 those with whom 1 had become acquainted 
 when we were convicts together. Some 
 months ago, I saw your father in this city. 
 My chief confederate in guilt learned that 
 he had drawn a considerable sum of money, 
 with which he was to return home on the 
 following day. We resolved that the 
 money should be ours, and agreed to rob 
 him by the way. The better to avoid 
 detection, we concerted that the robbery 
 should take place in his own parish. We 
 set out on the day before he was to leave, 
 and arrived at the footpaths leadiag across 
 the moor to the manse, after nightfall. 
 My companion took his station upon one 
 path, and I upon another, at about four 
 hundred yards distant from each other, 
 lest we should miss our prey. Within an 
 hour, your father approached by the path 
 at which I lay in wait for him. I sprang 
 before him. 1 demanded his money. He 
 refused it. He grappled with me — he was 
 too powerful for me — he knew me — he 
 mentioned my name. Till then I had not 
 
 thought of murder ; but I drew my knife 
 — I plunged it in his bosom, and he fell 
 dead at my feet. The booty we expected 
 I did not find. My companion came up, 
 and, with our hands we dug a grave for 
 my victim in the morass. My fellow in 
 guilt accused me of having secreted your 
 father's money before he came to me. 
 With deep oaths, I swore that I had found 
 none ; but he believed me not. After- 
 wards, he saw notices of the rewards that 
 were offered for the apprehension of the 
 murderer, or to those who could give in- 
 formation respecting your father's fate. 
 We were drinking together, when he 
 threatened to give me up to justice and 
 receive the reward. Stung to insanity 
 vand despair by his threats, I sprang to my 
 feet, and buried in his body the same knife 
 I had plunged in your father's bosom. 
 He expired before me ; 1 was seized be- 
 fore I withdrew my hand ; and now I am 
 doomed to death — death here and here- 
 after. I would have carried this confes- 
 sion to the grave — if there be a grave for 
 me. Your father's fate should have re- 
 mained a mystery till suspicion darkened 
 the soul of the innocent ; but your appear- 
 ance here dragged it to my lips — an in- 
 ^^sible power compelled me to make it — 
 and, now you have heard it. Invoke the 
 vengeance of Heaven upon me, and leave 
 me." 
 
 Mary wept aloud for a few minutes, 
 and, again addressing the criminal, said 
 — " Unhappy man ! waste not your num- 
 bered hours in wickedness and despair. 
 Insult not the yet offered mercy of your 
 Creator : for even for you, guilty as you 
 are — and a more guilty man than you, 
 Adam Black, breathes not upon the earth 
 — yet even for you there is hope." 
 
 " Away, woman !" cried ho impatient- 
 ly ; " am I a child, or am I an ignorant 
 man, that ye preach to me ! Did I not 
 forsake my Maker in my youth, and dis- 
 honor Him with my strength, and will he 
 accept my premature grey hairs ? Shall 
 He take me to heaven merely because I 
 
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER. 
 
 359 
 
 fear hell ? Away, woman ! ye have heard 
 all I have to tell thee ! 1 have lived a 
 sinner, but I will not die the hangman's 
 fool, believing that the steps of the 
 gallows, like Jacob's ladder, lead to 
 heaven !" 
 
 '• Adam Black !" said Mary, solemnly, 
 and laying her hand upon his shoulder, 
 " dost thou believe the Scriptures r" 
 
 " Yes I'' exclaimed he, "' 1 believe as 
 devils believe — I believe and tremble ; 
 and already I feel the futurity that awaits 
 me, in the absence of hope — in the gnaw- 
 ing of the worm that dieth not — in the 
 burning of despair !" 
 
 "" Wretched being !" said she, " add 
 
 not wilful despair to the catalogue of your 
 crimes." 
 
 " Woman, woman !" he cried, furiously 
 — " why are ye come to torment me before 
 my time ! My conscience cried to me for 
 years — ' Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye 
 die ?' but I laughed at its voice, I drowned 
 it in the yell of human fiends, and now it 
 has turned upon my bosom, where it clino-s 
 and stings as a scorpion ! Away, woman ! 
 away ! Torture me not — leave me ! — leave 
 me !" 
 
 She was supported from the prison in 
 the arms of her friend ; and, on the fol- 
 lowing day, Adam Black, her father's mur- 
 derer, expiated his crimes upon a scafibld. 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED 
 
 SPINSTER. 
 
 The poet of The Elegy par excellence^ 
 hath written two lines which run thus — 
 
 " Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on tlie desert air.-' 
 
 Now, I never can think of these lines but 
 they remind me of the tender, delicate, 
 living, breathing, and neglected flowers 
 that bud, blossom, shed their leaves, and 
 die, in cold unsunned obscurity — flowers 
 that were formed to shed their fragrance 
 around a man's heart, and to charm his 
 eye— but which, though wandering melan- 
 choly and alone in the wilderness where 
 they grow, he passed by with neglect, 
 makino- a companion of his loneliness. 
 But, to drop all metaphor — where will you 
 find a flower more interesting than a 
 spinster of threescore and ten, of sixty, of 
 fifty, or of forty ? They have, indeed, 
 ^' wasted their sweetness on the desert 
 
 air." Some call them " old maids ;" but 
 it is a malicious appellation, unless it can 
 be proved that they have refused to be 
 wives. I would always take the part of a 
 spinster : they are a peculiar people, far 
 more " sinned against than sinning." 
 Every blockhead thinks himself at liberty 
 to crack a joke upon them ; and when he 
 says something that he conceives to be 
 wondrous smart about Miss Such-an-one, 
 a,nd her cat, or poodle dog, he conceives 
 himself a marvellous clever fellow ; yea, 
 even those of her own sex who are below 
 what is called a " certain age" (what that 
 age is, I cannot tell), think themselves 
 privileged to giggle at the expense of their 
 elder sister. Now, though there may be a 
 degree of peevishness (and it is not to be 
 wondered at) amongst the sisterhood, yet 
 with them you will find the most sensitive 
 
360 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS- 
 
 teuderness of heart, a delicacj that quiver>3, 
 like the aspen leaf, at a breath, and a kind- 
 liness of soul that a mother might envy — 
 or rather, for envy, shall I not write i7ni- 
 tate ? But, ah ! if their history were told, 
 what a chronicle it would exhibit of 
 blighted affections, withered hearts, secret 
 tears, and midnight sighs ! 
 
 The first spinster of whom I have a par- 
 ticular remembrance, as belonging to her 
 caste, was Diana Darling. It is now six- 
 and-twenty years since Diana paid the 
 debt of nature, up to which period, and 
 for a few years before, she rented a room 
 in Chirnside. It was only a year or two 
 before her death that I became acquainted 
 with her ; and I was then very young. 
 But 1 never shall forget her kindness to- 
 wards me. She treated me as though I 
 had been her own child, or rather her 
 grandchild, for she was then very little 
 under seventy years of age. She had 
 always an air of gentility about her ; peo- 
 ple called her " a bett^rish sort o' body." 
 And, although Miss and Mistress are be- 
 coming general appellations now, twenty 
 or thirty years ago, upon the Borders, 
 those titles were only applied to particular 
 persons or on particular occasions ; and 
 whether their more frequent use now is to 
 be attributed to the schoolmaster being 
 abroad or the dancing-master being abroad, 
 I cannot tell, but Diana Darling, although 
 acknowledged to be a " betterish sort o' 
 body," never was spoken of by any other 
 term but " auld Diana," or "auld Die." 
 Well do I remember her flowing chintz 
 gown, with short sleeves, her snow-white 
 apron, her whiter cap, and old kid gloves 
 rcachino; to her elbows : and as well do I 
 remember how she took one of the com- 
 mon blue cakes which washerwomen use, 
 and tying it up in a piece of woollen cloth, 
 dipped it in water, and daubed it round 
 and round the walls of her room, to give 
 them the appearance of being papered. I 
 have often heard of and seen stenciling 
 since ; but, rude as the attempt was, I am 
 almost persuaded that Diana was the first 
 
 who put it in practice. To keep up gen^ 
 tility putteth people to strange shifts, and 
 often to ridiculous ones — and to both of 
 these extremities she was driven. But I 
 have hinted that she was a kind-hearted 
 creature ; and, above all, do I remember 
 her for the fine old ballads which she sang 
 to me. But there was one that was an 
 especial favorite with her, and a verse of 
 which, if I remember correctly, ran thus — 
 
 •• Fie, Lizzy Lindsay ! 
 
 Sae lang in the mornins ye lie, 
 Mair fit ye was helping yer minny 
 To milk a' the ewes and the kye." 
 
 Diana, however, was a woman of some 
 education ; and to a relative she left a 
 sort of history of her life, from which the 
 following is an extract : — 
 
 " My faither died before I was eighteen 
 (so began Diana's narrative), and he left 
 five of us — that is, my mother, two sisters, 
 a brother, and myself — five hundred 
 pounds a-piece. My sisters were both 
 younger than me ; but, within six years 
 after our father's death, they both got 
 married ; and my brother, who was only 
 a year older than myself, left the house 
 also, and took a wife, so that there was 
 nobody but me and my mother left. 
 Everybody thought there was something 
 very singular in this ; for it was not natu- 
 ral that the youngest should be taken and 
 the auldest left ; and, besides, it was ac- 
 knowledged that I was the best-faured* 
 and the best-tempered in the family ; an^ 
 there could be no dispute but that m}-- sil- 
 ler was as good as theirs. 
 
 I must confess, however, that when I 
 was but a lassie o' sixteen, I had drawn up* 
 wi' one James Laidlaw — but I should 
 score out the word one, and just say that 
 I had drawn up wi' James Laidlaw. He" 
 was a year, or maybe three, aulder than 
 me, and I kefiijcd hiln when he was just a 
 laddie at Mr. \Vb — 's school in Duuse ; 
 but 1 took no notice o' him then in parti- 
 cular, and, indeed, I never did, until one 
 day that I was an errand down by Kim- 
 
 * Best looking, or most beautiful 
 
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER. 
 
 3G1 
 
 merghame, and I met James just coming 
 out fras the gardens. It was the summer 
 season, and he had a posie in his hand, 
 and a very bonny posie it was. ' Here's 
 a fine day, Diana, "" says he. ' Yes, it is,' 
 says I. 
 
 So we said nae mair for some time ; but 
 he keepit walking by my side, and at last 
 he said — ' What do ye think o' this posie ?' 
 * It is very bonny, James,' said I. ' I 
 think sae,' quoth he ; ' and if ye will ac- 
 cept it, there should naebody be mair wel- 
 come to it.' ' On, I thank ye,' said I, and 
 I blushed in a way — ' why should ye gie 
 me it .?' ' Never mind,' says he, ' tak it for 
 auld acquaintance sake — we were at the 
 school together.' 
 
 So 1 took the flowers, and James keepit 
 by ray side, and cracked to me a' the way 
 to my mother's door, and I cracked to 
 him — and I really wondered that the road 
 between Kimmerghame and Dunse had 
 turned sae short. It wasna half the lenc'-th 
 
 O 
 
 that it used to be, or what I thought it 
 ought to be. 
 
 But I often saw James Laidlaw after 
 this ; and somehow or other I aye met him 
 just as I was coming out o' the kirk ; and 
 weel do I recollect that, one Sabbath in 
 partic!ular, he said to me — ' Diana, will ye 
 no come out and tak a walk after ye get 
 your dinner P ' I dinna ken, James,' 
 says 1 ; ' I doubt I daurna, for our folk are 
 very particular, and baith my faither and 
 my mother are terribly against onything 
 like gau'n about stravaigin on the Sundays.' 
 ' Oh, they need never ken where ye 're 
 gaun,' says he. ' Weel, I "11 try,' says I, 
 for by this time I had a sort o' liking for 
 James. ^ Then,' said he, ' Fll bo at the 
 Penny Stane at four o'clock.' ' Very 
 weel,' quoth I. 
 
 And, although baith my faither and 
 mother said to me, as I was gaun out — 
 ' Where are ye gaun, lassie P — ' Oh, no 
 very far,' said I; and, at four o'clock, I 
 met James at the Penny Stane. I shall 
 never forget the grip that he gied my 
 hand when he took it in his, and said — 
 
 ' Ye hae been as good as your word, 
 Diana.' 
 
 We wandered awa doun by Wedderburn 
 dyke, till we came to the Blackadder, and 
 then we sauntered dow^n by the river side, 
 till we were opposite Kelloe — and, oh, it 
 was a pleasant afternoon. Everything 
 round about us, aboon us, and among our 
 feet, seemed to ken it was Sunday — every- 
 thing but James and me. The laverock 
 was sin2;in<x in the blue lift — the black- 
 birds were whistling in the hedges — the 
 mavis chauntcd its loud sang frae the 
 bushes on the braes — the lennerts* were 
 singing and chirm ing among the whins — 
 and the shelfa t absolutely seemed to fol- 
 low yf> wi' its three notes over again, in 
 order that ye might learn them. 
 
 It was the happiest afternoon I ever 
 spent. James grat, and I grat. I got a 
 scolding frae my faither and my mother 
 when 1 o-aed hame, and thev demanded to 
 ken where I had been ; but the words that 
 James had spoken to me bore up against 
 their reproaches. 
 
 Weel, it was very shortly (1 daresay 
 not six months after my faither's death), 
 that James culled at my mother's, and as 
 he said, to bid usfai'eweel! He took my 
 mother's hand — I mind 1 saw him raise it 
 to his lips, while the tears were on his 
 checks ; and he was also greatly put about 
 to part wi' my sisters ; but to me he 
 said — 
 
 ' Ye'll see me down a bit, Diana.' 
 
 He was to take the coach for Liverpool 
 or, at least, a coach to take him on the 
 road to that town, the nest day ; and from 
 there he was to proceed to the West In- 
 dies, to meet an uncle who was to make 
 him his heir. 
 
 I went out wi' him, and we wandered 
 away down by our auld v/alks ; but, oh, 
 he said little, and he sighed often, and his 
 heart was sad. But mine was as sad as 
 his, and I could say as little as him. I 
 winna, I canna write a' the words and the 
 
 * Linnets, 
 
 t Chaffinch. 
 
3G2 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Yows that passed. He took the chain frae 
 his watch, and it was o' the best gold, and 
 he also took a pair o' Bibles frae his pocket 
 and he put the watch chain and the Bibles 
 into my hand, and — ' Diana,' said he, 
 ' take these, dear — keep them for the sake 
 o' your poor James, and, as often as ye 
 see them, think on him.' I took them, 
 and wi' the tears running down my cheeks 
 — ' O James,' cried I, ' this is hard I — 
 hard!' 
 
 Twice, ay thrice, we bade each other 
 '/areiyee/,' and thrice, after he had parted 
 frae me, he cam running back again, and, 
 throwing his arms around my neck, 
 cried — 
 
 ' Diana ! I canna leave ye ! — promise 
 me that ye will never marry onybody 
 else !' 
 
 And thrice I promised him that I 
 wouldna. 
 
 But ho gaed awa, and my only consola- 
 tion was lookino; at the Bibles, on one o' 
 the white leaves o' the first volume o' 
 which I found written, by his own hand, 
 ' James Laidlaw and Diana Darling vow- 
 ed ihat, if they were spared^ they would he- 
 come man and wife ; and that neither time^ 
 distance^ nor circumstances^ should absolve 
 their plighted troth. Dated^ May 25//t, 
 17—.' 
 
 These were cheering words to me ; and 
 I lived on them for years, even after my 
 younger sisters were married, and I had 
 ceased to hear from him. And, durino- 
 that time, for his sake, I had declined of- 
 fers which my friends said I was waur than 
 foolish to reject. At least half-a-dozen 
 good matches I let slip through my hands, 
 and a' for the love o' James Laidlaw who 
 was far awa, and the vows he had plighted 
 to me by the side o' the Blackadder. 
 And, although he hadna written to me for 
 some years, I couldna think that ony man 
 could be so wicked as to write words o' 
 falsehood and bind them up in the volume 
 o' everlastino; truth. 
 
 But, about ten years after he had gane 
 awa, James Laidlaw came back to our 
 
 neighborhood ; but he wasna the same lad 
 he left — for he was now a dark-complex- 
 ioned man, and he had wi' him a mulatto 
 woman and three bairns that called him 
 faither ! He was no longer my James ! 
 
 My mother was by this time dead, and 
 I expected nacthing but that the knowledo-e 
 o' his faithlessness would kill me too — for 
 I had clung to hope till the last straw was 
 broken. 
 
 1 met him once during his stay in the 
 country, and, strange to tell, it was within 
 a hundred yards o' the very spot where I 
 first foregathered wi' him, when he oficred 
 me the posie. 
 
 ' Ha ! Die !' said he, ' my old girl, are 
 you still alive ^ I'm glad to see you. Is 
 the old woman, your mother, living yet P 
 I was ready to faint, my heart throbbed as 
 though it would have burst. A' the trials 
 I had ever had were naething to this ; and 
 he continued — ' Why, if I remember right, 
 there was once somethins; like an old 
 flame between you and me.' ' O James ! 
 James !' said I, ' do ye remember the 
 words ye wrote in the Bible, and the vows 
 that ye made me by the side of the Black- 
 adder P * Ha ! ha !' said he, and he laugh- 
 ed, ' you are there, are you } I do mind 
 something of it. But Die, I did not think 
 that a girl like you would have been such 
 a fool as to remember what a boy said to 
 her.' 
 
 I would have spoken to him again ; but 
 I remembered he was the husband of an- 
 other woman — though she was a mulatto, 
 an' I hurried away as fast as my fainting 
 heart would permit. I had but one con- 
 solation, and that was, that, though he had 
 married another, naebody could compare 
 her face wi' mine. 
 
 But it was lang before I got the better 
 o' this sair slight — ay, I may say it was 
 ten years and mair ; and I had to try to 
 pingle and find a living upon the interest 
 o' my five hundred pounds, wi' ony other 
 thing that I could turn my hand to in a 
 genteel sort o' way. 
 
 I was now getting on the wrang side o 
 
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER. 
 
 363^ 
 
 eight-and-thirty ; and that is an age when 
 it isna prudent in a spinster to be throw- 
 ing the poutj side o' her lip to any desent 
 lad that hands out his hand, and says — 
 ' Jenny, will ye tak me ?' Often and of- 
 ten, baith by day and by night, did I think 
 o' the good bargains I had lost, for the 
 sake o' my fause James Laidlaw ; and of- 
 ten, when I saw some o' them that had 
 come praying to me, pass me on a Sunday 
 wi' their wives wi' their hands half round 
 their waist, on the horse behint them — 
 ' O James ! fause James !' I have said, 
 ' but for trusting to you, and it would hae 
 been me that would this day been riding 
 
 behint Mr. .' 
 
 But I had still five hundred pounds, and 
 sic fend as I could make, to help what 
 they brought to me. And, about this 
 time, there was one that had the character 
 of being a very respectable sort o' a lad, one 
 Walter Sanderson ; he was a farmer, very 
 near about my own age, and altogether a 
 most prepossessing and intelligent young 
 man. I first met wi' him at my youngest 
 sister's goodman's kirn,* and, 1 must say, 
 a better or a more gracefu' dancer I never 
 saw upon a floor. He had neither the 
 jumping o' a mountebank, nor the sliding 
 o' a play-actor, but there was an ease in 
 his carriage which I never saw equalled. 
 I was particularly struck wi' him, and es- 
 pecially his dancing ; and it so happened 
 that he was no less struck wi' me. I 
 thought he looked even better than James 
 Laidlaw used to do — but at times I had 
 doubts about it. However, he had stopped 
 all the night at my brother-in-law's as 
 weel as mysel ; and when I got up to gang 
 hame the next day, he said he would bear 
 me company. I thanked him, and said 1 was 
 much obliged to him, never thinking that 
 he would attempt such a thing. But, just as 
 the powny was brought out for me to ride 
 on (and the callant was to come up to 
 Dunse for it at night), Mr. Walter San- 
 derson mounted his horse, and says he — 
 
 * Harvest-home. 
 
 ' Now, wi' your permission, Miss Dar- 
 ling, I will see you hame.' 
 
 It would hae been very rude o' me tc 
 hae said — ' No I thank you. Sir,' and es- 
 pecially at my time o' life, wi' twa younger 
 sisters married that had families ; so I 
 blushed, as it were, and giein my powny a 
 twitch, he sprang on to hiS' saddle, and 
 came trotting along; by my side. He wa& 
 very agreeable company ; and, when he' 
 said, ' I shall be most happy to pay you a 
 visit. Miss Darling, I didna think o' what 
 I had said, until afSer that I had answered; 
 him, ' I shall be rery happy to see ye, 
 sir.' And when. I thought o' it, my very 
 cheek bones burn=ed wi' shame. 
 
 But, howsoever, Mr. Sanderson was not 
 long in calling agaiu — and often he did 
 call, and my sisters and their guidmen 
 began to jeer me about him. Weel, he 
 called and called, for I daresay as good as 
 three quarters of a-year ; and he was sae 
 backward and modest a' the time that I 
 thought him a very remarkable man ; in- 
 deed, I began to think him every way 
 superior to James Laidlaw. 
 
 But at last he made proposals — I con- 
 sented — the wedding day was set, and we 
 had been cried in the kirk. It was the 
 fair day, just two days before we were to- 
 be married, and he came into the house, 
 and, after he had been seated awhile, and 
 cracked in his usual kind way — 
 
 ' Oh,' says he, ' what a bargain I hae 
 missed the day ! There are four lots o' 
 cattle in the market, and I mio-ht hae 
 cleared four hundred pounds, cent, per 
 cent., by them.' 
 
 ' Losh me ! Walter, then,' says I, ' why 
 didna ye do it ? How did ye let sic a 
 bargain slip through jour fingers P 
 
 ' Woman,' said he, ' I dinna ken ; but 
 a man that is to be married within eio-ht- 
 and-forty hours is excusable. I came to 
 the fair without any thought o' either 
 buying or selling — but just to see you, 
 Diana — and I kenned there wasna meikle 
 siller necessary for that.' 
 
 ' Losh, Walter, man,' said I, ^ but that 
 
364 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 is a pity — and ye say ye could make cent, 
 per cent, by the beasts ?' 
 
 ' 'Deed could I,' (juotb lie — ' I am sure 
 o' that.' 
 
 ' Then, Walter,' says I, ' what is mine 
 the day is to be yours the morn, 1 may 
 say ; and it would be a pity to lose sic a 
 bargain.' 
 
 Therefore I put into his hands an order 
 an a branch bank that had been establish- 
 ed in Dunse, for every farthing that I was 
 worth in the world, and Walter kissed me, 
 and went out to get the money frae the 
 Bank, and buy the cattle. 
 
 But he hadna been out an hour, when 
 ane o' my brothers-in-lav/ called, and I 
 thought he looked unco dowie. So I be- 
 gan to tell him of the excellent bargain 
 that Walter had made, and what I had 
 done. But the man started frae his seat 
 as if he were crazed, and without asldng 
 me ony questions, ho only cried — ' Gra- 
 cious ! Diana ! hae ye been sic an idiot ?' 
 and, rushing out o' the house, ran to the 
 bank. 
 
 He left me in a state that I canna de- 
 scribe ; I neither kenned what to do nor 
 what to think. But within half-an-hour 
 he returned, and he cried out as he en- 
 tered — •■ Diana, ye are ruined } He has 
 taken in you and everybody else. The 
 villain broke yesterday. He is off ! Ye 
 may bid fareweel to your siller !' ' Wha 
 is off.'" cried I ; and 1 was in sic a state I 
 was hardly able to speak. ' Walter San- 
 derson !' answered my brother-in-law, 
 
 1 believe I went into hysterics ; for the 
 first thing I mind o' after his saying so, 
 was a dozen people standing round about 
 me — some slapping at the palms o' my 
 hands, and others laving water on my 
 breast and temples, until they had me as 
 wet as if they had douked me in Pollock's 
 Well. 
 
 I canna tell how I stood up against this 
 clap o' misery. It was near getting the 
 better o' me. For a time I really hated 
 the very name and the sight o' man, and 
 I said, as the song says, that 
 
 ' Men are a' deceivers.' 
 
 But this was not the worst o' it — 1 had 
 lost my all, and I was now forced into the 
 acquaintanceship of poverty and depen- 
 dence. I first went to live under the roof 
 o' my youngest sister, who had always 
 been my favorite ; but, before six months 
 went round, I found that she began to 
 treat me just as though I had been a ser- 
 vant ; ordering me to do this and do the 
 other ; and sometimes my dinner was sent 
 ben to me into the kitchen ; and the ser- 
 vant lassies, seeing how their mistress 
 treated me, considered that they should 
 be justified in doing the same — and 
 they did the same. Many a weary time 
 have I lain down upon my bed and wished 
 never to rise again, for my spirit was 
 weary o' this world. But 1 put up wi' 
 insult after insult, until flesh and blood 
 could endure it no longer. Then did I go 
 to my other sister, and she hardly opened 
 her mouth to me as I entered her house. 
 I saw that I might gang where I liked — I 
 wasna welcome there. Before 1 had been 
 a week under her roof, I found that the 
 herd's dog led a lady's life to mine. I 
 was forced to leave her too. 
 
 And, as a sort o' last alternative, just 
 to keep me in existence, I began a bit 
 shop in a neighboring town, and took in 
 sewins: and washincr ; and, after 1 had 
 
 C CD 7 7 
 
 tried them awhile and found that they 
 would hardly do, I commenced a bit 
 school at the advice of the minister's wife, 
 and learned bairns their letters and the 
 catechism, and knittimi; and sewin*'. I 
 also taught them (for they were a' girls) 
 how to work their samplers, and to write, 
 and to cast accounts. But what vexed 
 and humbled me more than all 1 had suf- 
 fered, was, that one night, just after I liad 
 let my scholars away, an auld hedger and 
 ditcher body, almost sixty years o' age, 
 came into the house, and ' How's a' wi'ye 
 the nicht .-' says he, though I had never 
 spoken to the man before. But he took 
 off his bonnet, and, pulling in a chair, 
 drew a seat to the fire. I was thunder- 
 
ELLEN ARUNDEL. 
 
 36S 
 
 struek ! But I was yet mair astonished 
 and ashamed, when the auld body, sleeking 
 down his hair and his chin, had the assur- 
 ance to make love to me ! 
 
 ' There is the door, sir !' cried I. And 
 when he didna seem willino; to understand 
 me, I gripped him by the shout.hcrs and 
 showed him what I meant. 
 
 Yet quite composedly he turned round 
 to me and said, ' I dinna see what is the 
 uso o' the like o' this — it is true I 
 am aulder than you, but you are at a ' 
 time o' life now that ye canna expect ony 
 young man to look at ye. Therefore, ye 
 had better think twice before ye turn me 
 to the door. Ye will find it just as easy a 
 life being the wife o' a hedger as keeping 
 a school — rather mair sac I apprehend, 
 and mair profitable two.' I had nae pa- 
 tience wi' the man. I thought my sisters 
 had insulted me; but this oJGfer o' the 
 hed2:er's wounded me mair than a' that 
 they had done. 
 
 ' O James Laidlaw !' cried I, when I 
 was left to mysel, ' what hae ye brought 
 rae to ! My sisters dinna look after me. 
 My parting wi' them has gien them an 
 excuse to forget that I exist. Mj brother 
 
 is far frae me, and he is ruled by a wife ; 
 and I hae been robbed by another o' the 
 little that I had. I am like a withered 
 tree in a wilderness, standing by its lane 
 — I will fa' and naebody will miss me. I 
 am sick, and there are none to baud my 
 head. My throat is parched, and my lips 
 dry, and there are none to bring me a 
 cup o' water. There is nae living thing 
 that I can ca' mine. And some day I shall 
 be found a stifi^oned corpse in my bed, 
 with no one near me to close my eyes in 
 death or perform the last oiSce of huma- 
 nity ! For I am alone — I am by myself 
 — I am forgotten in the world ; and my 
 latter years, if I have a long life, will be a 
 burden to strangers.' " 
 
 But Diana Darling did not so die. Her 
 gentleness, her kindness, caused her to be 
 beloved by many who knew not her his- 
 tory ; and, when the last stern messenger 
 came to call her hence, many watched' 
 with tears around her bed of death, and 
 many more in sorrow followed her to the 
 grave. So ran the few leaves in the diary 
 of a spinster— and the reader will forgive 
 our interpolations. 
 
 ELLEN AEUNDEL 
 
 Ellen Arundel was the only daughter 
 of an officer in the British service, who, 
 with his sword for his patrimony, had en- 
 tered earl}'' into the profession of arms as 
 the nieans of maintcnx^nce ; and he had, 
 accordingly, pursued it with that enthusi- 
 astic spirit of honor, which is dictated by 
 the considerations of family pride, the 
 hope of fame, the dread of disgrace, and 
 the most ardent love of glory. 
 
 The utmost height, however, to which 
 he had risen, when he committed the folly 
 
 of matrimony, by uniting his destiny to 
 that of the portionless diaughter of a ven- 
 erable, respectable, unbeneficed clergy- 
 man, was that of lieutenaat in a foot regi- 
 ment. By dint of earreful management, 
 on the part of his wife, they contrived to- 
 live happily together ; Dor did the increase 
 of their family — for Ellen made her ap- 
 pearance within the first year after their 
 marriage — add to their difiiculties. 
 
 In the care and superintendence of their 
 darling daughter, did their yea,rs roll on 
 
366 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 in linmble content. If they beared a sigh, 
 it was for their Ellen's future welfare ; 
 if they breathed a wish, it was to see her 
 placed in a situation which might guard 
 her against the attacks of poverty, and 
 the designs of iniquity. From the form- 
 'er, they were aware, iDcanty and accom- 
 plishments would prove no shield ; and 
 they trembled when they reflected that 
 "they might prove t'he most powerful in- 
 citement to the latter. The sweets of life 
 are not to be enjoyed without its accom- 
 panying embitterments. The regiment 
 in which Mr. Arundel served, received 
 orders to embark for America, in trans- 
 ports already prepared for the reception 
 of the British forces. On the communi- 
 cation of this intelligence, so subversive 
 of their little plans of economy and feli- 
 city, Mrs. Arundel earnestly entreated 
 that she and Ellen might be the companions 
 of his voyage. For a while Mr. Arundel 
 would not consent to this, from a fear of 
 incurring expense wliich theyi^ere unable 
 to support ; but all the difficulties wbich 
 the narrowness of their finances suggested, 
 were obviated by a tliousand little arrange- 
 in ents, the ingenious devices of love ; and 
 the command of a company, which -was 
 'Conferred upon him before the embark- 
 ation, relieved them from their anxiety. 
 
 Few events happened, either during 
 their voyage or on their amval at Boston, 
 except that the assiduities of a young offi- 
 cer of anotlier regiment, who accompanied 
 them in the transport, seemed to liave 
 made some impression on the heart of 
 Ellen Arundel. She listened to his tales 
 ■of love, with the full sanction of her par- 
 ents, and sighed out the confession that 
 Tiis passion was returned. Mr. Meredith 
 was formed on the model wliicli Captain 
 Arundel had, in idea, fixed an for the 
 husband of his Ellen. To the qualifica- 
 tions of a soldier, lie added tliose which 
 roost liighly adorn private life : nor was 
 his income limited, for he was the only 
 son of a gentleman of fortune. But both 
 Captain Arundel and Mr. Meredith were 
 
 too regardful of decency and propriety 
 to hasten an event of so much import- 
 ance, till the father of the young gentle- 
 man had been made acquainted with the 
 attachment ; and letters from Captain 
 Arundel and the lover were, accordingly, 
 prepared, for the pnrpose of being des- 
 patched to Europe by the first ship that 
 should sail. 
 
 But, alas ! these precautions were soon 
 rendered unnecessary, by events which 
 dissolved the bonds of affection. On that 
 day when the attack of Bunker's Hill oc- 
 casioned a carnage which thinned the 
 British ranks. Captain Arundel and Mr. 
 Meredith stood foremost in the bloody 
 contest. Accident had placed them in 
 the same brigade : they fought and fell to- 
 gether. The body of the young officer 
 was carried off by the Americans ; and 
 the mortally wounded eaptain conveyed to 
 the habitation of his wretched wife and 
 daughter, where, shoitly afterwards, he 
 expired. 
 
 The keen and piercing angsish felt by 
 Ellen and her mother, i^ consequence of 
 this sorrowftil event, had chaaged to silent 
 and corroding melancholy, when they em- 
 barked for their native land, after having 
 received every attention which the gover- 
 nor and garrison could offer as a tribute to 
 the memorj^ of the deceased. On their 
 arrival in Britain, a pension was granted 
 to Mre. Arundel, which, in the event of 
 her death, was to be continued to her 
 daTighter ; and with this they retired to a 
 small village northward ef the Scottish 
 metropolis, where a maiden sister of Cap- 
 tain Arundel, who was remtirkably fond of 
 Ellen, resided. 
 
 But, as no retirement will •conceal the 
 'charms of beauty, nor any circle, however 
 confined, prevent the fame of accomplish- 
 ments from spreading beyond its limit, 
 Mr. Newton, a widower (f;f independent 
 fortune, not much past t'he prime of life, 
 liavinor been told of Ellen, resolved to 
 visit the Arundels. An opportunity soon 
 presented itself. The house which the 
 
ELLEN ARUNDEL. 
 
 367 
 
 ladies inhabited was advertised for sale ; 
 and under pretence of an intention to pur- 
 chase, he wrote Mrs. Arundel, dcsirinoj 
 to know when it would be convenient for 
 him to call. To wnich Mrs. Arundel, 
 returned a polite answer, naming an early 
 day. 
 
 Mr Newton went ; and, after he had 
 Tiewed the house and gardens with the air 
 of an intending purchaser, Mrs. Arundel, 
 desirous of cultivating the acquaintance 
 of so distinguished a neighbor, asked hira 
 to stay to tea ; which being unhesitatingly 
 accepted, he was introduced to the fair,, 
 the amiable, the still mournln"- Ellen. 
 Prepared by the universal voice to admire, 
 love was the immediate consequence of a 
 visit, which he requested leave to repeat, 
 in terms with which civility could not re- 
 fuse to compl}'^ ; and a few weeks confirm- 
 ed Mr. Newton the ardent and the profess- 
 ed lover of Ellen. But her heart was still 
 engaged ; nor could she abandon even a 
 hopeless passion. The character, the for- 
 tune, the unobjectionable person of Mr. 
 Newton, were urged to her, by her only 
 friends, with such energy, but mildness, 
 of persuasion, that, enforced by the de- 
 clarations of her admirer, she was prevail- 
 ed upon to promise him her hand, though 
 not her heart ; and a day was named for 
 the celebration of their nuptials. 
 
 The necessary preparations now engag- 
 ed the attention of Mr. Newton and the 
 two matron ladies ; whilst Ellen passively 
 yielded to the assiduities of her friends, 
 and suffered the adornments of her per- 
 son, and the intended provisions of settle- 
 ment, to be adjusted, without once inter- 
 ferins". 
 
 A few mornings before the appointed 
 day, as Ellen was seated at breakfast with 
 her mother and aunt, a note was put into 
 her hands. She saw at a glance that it 
 was from Mr. Newton ; and she immedi- 
 ately handed it across the table to Mrs. 
 Arundel, who read : — 
 
 " Mabaji, — That your heart is not at 
 
 all interested in the intended event, you 
 have, with candor, frequently acknow- 
 ledged to me. You will not, therefore, even 
 wish to receive an apology for my releas- 
 ing you from an unsuitable engagement. 
 
 " My long lost son-— my son, whom I 
 had for years resigned to heaven, is restor- 
 ed to me ; and Providence, which has be- 
 stowed on me this consummate happiness, 
 will not permit me to add to it a wish which 
 concerns myself. He is young, he is 
 amiable, and more worthy of your regard 
 than I am. It is my sincere wish that he 
 should become your husband. I shall, 
 therefore, take an early opportunity of in- 
 troducing him to you. 
 
 " My real name is not what you have 
 hitherto considered it to be. I chano-ed it 
 when, on the supposed death of my son, I 
 retired from my usual place of residence 
 to a distant part of the kingdom, to avoid 
 the importunities of some worthless rela- 
 tives ; but, until I have the honor of dis- 
 closing to you in person my real name, I 
 beg to subscribe myself. Madam, 
 " Yours very truly. 
 
 " J. B. Newton. 
 
 " To Miss Ellen ArundeV 
 
 When this most extraordinary epistle 
 was read, Ellen turned deadly pale, and 
 would certainly have fallen to the ground, 
 had not a young man entered through the 
 window, v/hich opened out on the lawn, 
 and caught her in his arms. He was fol- 
 lowed by Mr. Newton. 
 
 *' Ellen," exclaimed the latter, " behold 
 my son !" 
 
 The sorrowing girl cast her eyes upon 
 the form of him who held her. 
 
 " Meredith !" she cried, and threw her- 
 self, weeping, upon his shoulder. Her 
 tears were tears of joy. Little more re- 
 mains to tell. Ellen Arundel gave her 
 hand to the son on the very day which 
 had been appointed for her nuptials with 
 the father. 
 
3CS 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 FAUCONBEitG; 
 
 OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 Amongst those whom the revolution in 
 France drove from their native country, 
 was a young man, of noble family, of the 
 name of Fauconberg. Learning that his 
 name was in the list of the proscribed, 
 registered in one of those fatal rolls from 
 which Robespierre supplied the guillotine 
 with its victims, he hurried to Bordeaux, 
 fluno- himself on board the first vessel he 
 found there about to sail for a foreign port, 
 without inquiring or caring whither she 
 was bound ; it being enough for him that 
 he was borne far away from a country 
 stained with blood and with crime, and in 
 which he dared no longer remain but at 
 the imminent hazard of his life. 
 
 The vessel on board which young Fau- 
 conberg embarked, happened to be an 
 English one ; and it is probable, notwith- 
 standing his indifference as to his destina- 
 tion, that it was the sound of that language 
 which induced him to make choice of her ; 
 since, if he had any preference at all in 
 the matter of country, it was in favor of 
 England. 
 
 Be this as it may, however, in less than 
 a week after, the expatriated Frenchman 
 found himself in Liverpool ; and, finally, 
 led from one place to another, by various 
 inducements, located in a small country 
 villao;e in the south of Scotland. Unlike 
 most of the other French emigres of this 
 period, Fauconberg was not dependent on 
 his own exertions for a mamtenance : he 
 had brought as much money with him as 
 he calculated would, with economy, main- 
 tain him for three years ; and he hoped 
 that, long ere that time expired, some 
 such favorable change would take place in 
 the affairs of France as would enable him 
 to return to that countrv. 
 
 It was in these cn-cumstances, then, and 
 with these hopes, that Fauconberg sat 
 himself quietly down in the village of 
 Cairnton to await the course of events. 
 The beauty of the situation had attracted 
 his attention ; and an idea that he might 
 live there more cheaply, or, at least, less 
 exposed to temptations to extravagance, 
 than in any of the larger towns, deter- 
 mined his choice. 
 
 For two years, the French emigre con- 
 tinued an inmate of the schoolmaster's of 
 Cairnton, with whom he took up his abode 
 on first cominff to the village. 
 
 During this time, his conduct had been 
 sufiiciently honorable as regarded pecu- 
 niary matters. He paid every one regu- 
 larly and punctually ; and was a general 
 favorite on account of his mild and gentle- 
 manly manners. His moral character, 
 however, was not so unblemished ; as the 
 birth of a son to him, by a young woman 
 of the village, but too strongly bore 
 evidence. 
 
 Fauconberg, however, did not add to 
 his offence that heartless meanness which 
 so often characterizes the seducer. He 
 provided liberall}- for the wants and ne- 
 cessities of the unfortunate mother of his 
 child, and at once agreed to settle an an- 
 nual sum on her for the maintenance of 
 the infant. Soon after this event took 
 place, Fauconberg suddenly left Cairnton, 
 without giving any one previous intimation 
 or mentioning to any one whitber he was 
 going. Nor, as he left no debt behind 
 him, was this ever ascertained, or, indeed, 
 ever inquired into. 
 
 Years passed away, but the French 
 emigre never returned ; and, but for one 
 circumstance, he would, in all probability, 
 
FAUCONBERG; OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 369 
 
 have been entirely forgotten. This cir- 
 cumstance, however, was rather a remark- 
 able one, and was creditable, at any rate, 
 to his character as a gentleman. Regu- 
 larly, every half-year, there came, by post, 
 to Lucy Gardner — the mother of Faucon- 
 berg's child — a remittance of the half of 
 the yearly amount which he had settled on 
 her before leaving Cairnton. Nay, more 
 honorable still, this sum was, after a time, 
 increased every year, as if to provide for 
 the increasing wants of the infant; and 
 intiiiiation was given, when this advance 
 in the allowance was first made, that such 
 advance would go on progressively until 
 the boy was grown up, and enabled to do 
 for himself. To this communication was 
 added a request, that he might be well 
 educated. 
 
 This was the only occasion, however, 
 on which any writing accompanied these 
 remittances. On all others, they were 
 merely enclosed in a blank sheet. For 
 some time, this money came from Eng- 
 land — sometimes from one place, and 
 som';tinies another, as the post-marks in- 
 timated ; but, at the end of four or five 
 years, it came to be remitted by a banking 
 house in London, by which the business 
 was ever afterwards transacted. 
 
 In the meantime, young Fauconberg 
 grew apace, and bore, as all those who re- 
 collected the French emigre said, a sin- 
 gularly strong resemblance to his father, 
 v/ho was a very handsome man. 
 
 The boy's abilities, too, were of a supe- 
 rior order ; and, in his education, he made 
 a progress which gave much satisfaction 
 to his teachers, and induced more than 
 one of them to augur favorably of his 
 future success in the world. His dispo- 
 sitions, also, were amiable ; and, in his 
 manners and deportment, there was a re- 
 finement and grace that marked him out 
 very distinctly from his associates. This 
 was partly the result of a naturally elevated 
 mind, and partly of an ever present con- 
 sciousness that gentle, nay, even noble, 
 blood flowed in his veins ; for he had been 
 
 VOL. II. 61 
 
 early made aware that his father was a 
 man of rank, and, in manner and accom- 
 plishments, a gentleman. 
 
 Young Fauconberg had now attained 
 the age of seventeen ; and, up to this pe- 
 riod, his life had been unmarked by any 
 extraordinary circumstance. Continuing 
 to live with his mother, who had, in some 
 measure, atoned for past errors by the 
 maintenance of an irreproachable charac- 
 ter, and by the care she took both of the 
 morals and of the, education of her son, he 
 had met with but little yet to disturb the 
 even tenor of his youthful existence. 
 
 An unhappy change, however, was at 
 hand. Tempted by the annuity of which 
 Lucy Gardner was in receipt for the sup- 
 port and education of her son^, a person of 
 the name of Morrison made her proposals 
 of marriage. 
 
 This Morrison had once been in a re- 
 spectable way as a shopkeeper in the -sdl- 
 lage, and still followed that calling ; but 
 dissipation was fast hurrying him to utter 
 ruin. He thought to save himself from 
 the gulf of wretchedness — on the brink of 
 which he stood — by grasping at the annui- 
 ty of Lucy Gardner. 
 
 The foolish woman listened to his pro- 
 posals ; and they were married. 
 
 From this day, young Fauconberg's life 
 became one of misery and wretchedness ; 
 rendered so by Morrison's intemperate 
 habits and brutal conduct, of which both 
 mother and son soon felt the unhappy 
 eflPects, 
 
 The affection of the young man for his 
 parent — the only one he had ever known 
 — induced him, for a long time, to put up 
 with the harsh treatment of his father-in- 
 law, and to bear uncomplainingly with the 
 opprobrious epithets which he was con- 
 stantly heaping on him. But there was 
 one that tried his temper severely, and it 
 was that with which he was oftenest taunt- 
 ed — his illegitimacy. 
 
 For upwards of a year, young Faucon- 
 berg endured this miserable life ; but a 
 time came when he could endure it no 
 
370 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 longer. Driven, one day, to the door, by 
 IMorrison, in one of liis brutal pbrenzies, 
 the young man vowed that that door he 
 would never enter again. This vow he 
 kept. On that day he set out for Edin- 
 burgh ; where he arrived, fatigued and 
 exhausted, in the dusk of the evening. 
 His subsequent course he had already de- 
 termined on ; and as he had not a penny 
 in his pocket, and knew no one in Edin- 
 burgh, it was necessary that he should take 
 that course instantly. He did so. He 
 proceeded straight to the castle ; and, en- 
 countering a sergeant in the gateway — 
 
 " Are you enlisting just now, sir .^" he 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, yes ! always enlisting when likely 
 young fellows such as you offer them- 
 selves. Do you intend tm-ning soldier .?" 
 
 " I do," said young Fauconberg, blush- 
 ing. 
 
 " Couldn't do better, my lad," replied 
 the sergeant. " Come along with me, and 
 I'll put you all to rights in a trice !" And 
 BO far as food and lodging went, he was as 
 good as his word, but not before he had 
 secured his man by tendering him the 
 significant shilling. 
 
 Young Fauconberg was now then a 
 soldier, and was soon subjected to all its 
 vicissitudes. In a short time after, his 
 regiment was ordered to England, next to 
 Ireland, and afterwards to a foreign 
 station. 
 
 In this interval, however — an interval 
 of two or three years — he had been pro- 
 moted to the rank of sergeant. A promo- 
 tion, for which he was indebted to his 
 steadiness, his superior education, and, 
 perhaps, in some measure also, to his 
 superior manners, which had early at- 
 tracted the notice of his officers. 
 
 During this time, Fauconberg wrote re- 
 gularly, and at short intervals, to his 
 mother, informing her of every circum- 
 stance that occurred to him in which he 
 thought that she could be interested. 
 
 Her letters in reply to him afforded but 
 little comfort. They but too plainly told, 
 
 although not in express terms, of the mi- 
 serable life she was leadino- with her 
 worthless and dissipated husband : they 
 spoke, too, of declining health ; and in 
 one — the last her son received from her — 
 she said she would never see him more, 
 and bade him farewell for ever. In a week 
 after, he received intelligence of her death. 
 
 Up to this period, his mother's allow- 
 ance for that maintenance and education 
 which he was no longer receiving, had 
 been regularly paid, with this difference, 
 that it was remitted yearly instead of half 
 yearly, as before. 
 
 On the appearance of the next remit- 
 tance — that is, the one succeeding Mrs. 
 Morrison "'s death, and which was nearly a 
 twelvemonth after that event — the school- 
 master, to whom, as we should, perhaps, 
 have said before, these remittances always 
 came, in the first instance, returned it to 
 the bankers, informing them of the death 
 of Mrs. Morrison, and saying — what was 
 true — that he knew not where her son 
 was, having heard nothing of him for a 
 long while. 
 
 The consequence of this communication 
 was, that no further remittances came. 
 
 Again years passed away ; and, in this 
 time, Fauconberg had been tossed about 
 the world, from east to west, and from 
 north to south, without having any corre- 
 spondence with, or hearing anything from 
 his native village. 
 
 The Peninsular War was now raging 
 violently ; but the regiment to which 
 Fauconberg belonged, had not yet parta- 
 ken of either its glories or its dangers. 
 
 Its time, however, was coming ; and 
 although it had not been permitted to 
 share in the honors attending the opening 
 of that illustrious series of campaigns which 
 ended in the overthrow of Napoleon, it 
 was allowed to participate in those attend- 
 ing their close. 
 
 In the latter end of 1 SI 2, Fauconberg '» 
 regiment was ordered to Spain, where it 
 arrived just in time to partake of the perils 
 and triumphs of the field of Vittoria. 
 
FAUCONBERG; OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 371 
 
 They afterwards formed part of that 
 army with which Wellington crossed the 
 Nive to attack Soult, who was in great 
 force on the opposite side. 
 
 During the advance of the British troops 
 towards the enemy, and when within an 
 hour or two's march of the latter, there 
 was descried, a good way to the right of 
 the British line of march, and consequently 
 on the left of the French army, a strong 
 natural position which appeared to be 
 occupied by the enemy, but in what man- 
 ner could not be ascertained. It being 
 desirable to know this, as also something 
 of the nature of the ground, the colonel of 
 Fauconberg's regiment, which happened 
 to be the one nearest the position in ques- 
 tion, was directed to find, if he could, a 
 cool, brave, and intelligent man, who would 
 undertake to reconnoitre the position, and 
 bring back as correct an account as possi- 
 ble of the enemy's arrangements for de- 
 fence, and of the localities of the place. 
 
 On this order beinc; communicated to 
 
 Colonel S , he immediately bethought 
 
 him of Fauconberg as the man in his re- 
 giment best qualified for such an enter- 
 prise. In this opinion, he instantly sent 
 for him. On his appearing — 
 
 " Fauconberg," he said, " have you a 
 mind to obtain a commission ?" 
 
 " A great mind, sir," replied the for- 
 mer, smiling, *' if I only knew how." 
 
 " I can tell you," said the colonel ; 
 " but, mind you, it's either a commission 
 or a coffin, or at least a grave." 
 
 " In time of war, sir, these are always 
 the alternatives of a soldier," said Fau- 
 conberg ; " and I'm willing it should be 
 so in the present case, whatever that case 
 may be." 
 
 " Then it is this," said the colonel ; and 
 he proceeded to inform the young non- 
 commissioned officer of the nature of the 
 duty he was required to perform. 
 
 Fauconberg at once undertook the dan- 
 gerous commission. 
 
 "See, however, young man," said the 
 colonel, on his expressing his willingness 
 
 ' to do so, " that you perfectly understand 
 the risks you run. If taken by the enemy, 
 certain death awaits you." 
 
 " 1 know it, sir," replied Fauconberg ; 
 " and am content to run that and all other 
 hazards." 
 
 " I need not add," said the colonel, 
 " that, in the event of your safe return 
 with the desired intelligence, your promo- 
 tion is certain, and will be immediate." 
 
 " I understand so, sir," replied Faucon- 
 berg. 
 
 " Then that's settled, P auconberg," 
 said the colonel. " Now, go, and take 
 your measures." 
 
 Fauconberg withdrew, but awaited the 
 fall of evening before setting out on his 
 perilous adventure. Evening came ; and 
 when it did, it found the intrepid young 
 soldier on his way to the enemy's position, 
 wrapped up in a great-coat, to conceal his 
 uniform ; and having concealed beneath, 
 a sword and brace of pistols. He was on 
 foot, having declined the offer of a horse, 
 which, he said, would only encumber him, 
 as he should, in all likelihood, be obliged 
 to go into places where a horse could not 
 carry him. 
 
 Having cleared the outposts of the Brit- 
 ish army, Fauconberg soon found himself 
 within a short distance of the position, 
 without having been challenged by any of 
 the enemy's sentinels, whom he had avoid- 
 ed by taking circuitous routes through 
 fields, and by stealing along the numerous 
 hedges and dykes by which the country 
 was thickly interspersed. 
 
 By these cautious proceedings, Faucon- 
 berg contrived to get so near the position, 
 that, by the aid of a bright moonlight, he 
 soon made himself master of its general 
 local outlines on the side next the British, 
 and of the dispositions made for its defence. 
 
 Havinfr made his observations, Faucon- 
 berg was about to retrace his steps to- 
 wards the British lines, when, to his great 
 alarm, he saw a strong picquet of the ene- 
 my within twenty paces of him, and ap- 
 proaching him as directly as if they were 
 
372 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 aware of his being there. This, however, 
 they were not ; and they would have pass- 
 ed him by, but for an unlucky accident 
 that discovered not only his presence, 
 but his whereabouts. As he hastily threw 
 himself at full lcn2;th into a hollow, on 
 perceiving the picquet approaching, one 
 of his pistols went off. The ball did him 
 no injury ; but the report brought half-a- 
 dozen of the enemy upon him, who in- 
 stantly made him prisoner, and would 
 have run him through with their bayonets, 
 but for a sergeant of the party, who sug- 
 gested that they would have more credit 
 by carrying him before the general. 
 
 The proposition was acceded to ; and 
 poor Fauconberg was forthwith marched 
 into the French lines, and carried before 
 a general of division. 
 
 The general was a tall, handsome man ; 
 still handsome, though well advanced in 
 years, but of a grave and somewhat stern 
 aspect. 
 
 On the case of the prisoner being stated 
 to him — the situation he was found in, 
 his being alone, &c., &c., and which left 
 no doubt of his having been employed in 
 making observations on the position — 
 
 " So, young man," said the general, 
 who spoke English with great fluency, 
 although with a good deal of the foreio-n 
 accent — " You have been playing the part 
 of spy. Do you know the consequences, 
 now that you are in our power .?" 
 
 " Perfectly, sir ; it is death," replied 
 Fauconberg, with a composure of manner 
 that excited the admiration of the general, 
 although he carefully concealed the feel- 
 ing. " I am prepared for it. I knew all 
 my risks ; and that this was amongst the 
 number." 
 
 " It is well, young man," said the gene- 
 ral. Then, turning to a subaltern who 
 stood beside him—" You will take charge 
 of the prisoner, sir, and see that he is shot 
 to-morrow morning before nine o'clock." 
 
 The officer bowed acquiescence ; and 
 Fauconbcrg's guards were about to hurry 
 him out of the tent in which this scene 
 
 took place, when the general, as if struck 
 with a sudden thought, called back the 
 prisoner and his guards, and, pulling a 
 small memorandum-book from his pocket, 
 opened it, and began writing in it, mutter- 
 ing as he did so — this, however, being in 
 French : — " English soldier — spy^shot 
 at Tarragone, 12th November, 1803." 
 
 Then, pausing and looking up to Fau- 
 conberg — 
 
 " Your name, young man r" 
 
 ^' Fauconberg." 
 
 " What, Fauconberg .?" repeated the 
 general, with a look of surprise that his 
 grave and stern features rarely assumed. 
 
 " Your country V* 
 
 " Scotland." 
 
 " The particular locality ?" 
 
 " Cairnton." 
 
 " Your mother's name .'" 
 
 "Gardner." 
 
 The general started from his seat, in a 
 state of evident excitement, and, waving 
 his hand impatiently, 
 
 " Away with your prisoner," he ex- 
 claimed ; " away with him ; and see that 
 he meet his fate in the morning." 
 
 The guards now hurried Fauconberg 
 out of the general's tent, and conducted 
 him towards an old chateau at a short 
 distance, which was temporarily occupied 
 by the French, and some of whose apart- 
 ments had been converted into prison 
 rooms for offenders of various descriptions. 
 
 Into one of these Fauconberg was now 
 thrust ; the door locked upon him ; and 
 a couple of sentinels placed at the door. 
 
 What the feelings of the unfortunate 
 young man were, now that he was left 
 alone to reflect on the dreadful situation 
 in which he was placed — shut up in a cold, 
 dark apartment, in which there was not 
 even a seat to sit upon, with a certainty 
 that the morning's light would conduct 
 him to a violent and untimely death — we 
 say, what his feelings were on that occa- 
 sion, we need not describe, they will rea- 
 dily be conceived. 
 
 Fortunately for Fauconberg, however, 
 
FAUCONBERG-, OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 373 
 
 he possessed a strength of mind which en- 
 abled him to contemplate death, if not 
 without that awe which it naturally in- 
 spires, at least with a decent and manly 
 composure. 
 
 Fauconberg had seated himself on the 
 floor of his dismal prison room, and the 
 midnight hour had passed, when he was 
 suddenly startled by hearing the sentinel 
 outside challenge some one who was ap- 
 proaching. The challenge seemed satis- 
 factorily answered ; for, in the next in- 
 stant, his door was opened, and two hus- 
 sars, one of them bearing a lantoren, en- 
 tered, and intimated to him, by signs, that 
 he must accompany them. 
 
 Althoucrh bavins; no doubt that it was 
 to execution he was about to be led, Fau- 
 conberg arose with alacrity, and, with 
 steady step and composed demeanor, left 
 the apartment with the soldiers ; one of 
 whom walked before him to lead the way — ; 
 the other behind, to prevent any attempt '■ 
 at escape ; and both having drawn swords 
 in their hands. \ 
 
 In this way the party proceeded until \ 
 they reached an outer courtyard of the i 
 chateau, where were three horses saddled ; 
 and bridled, fastened to rings in the wall, i 
 champing their bits, and pawing the ■ 
 ground impatiently. 
 
 On coming up to the horses^ the bus- ! 
 sars, pointing to one of the former, gave 
 Fauconberg to understand that they de- 
 sired him to mount. 
 
 Although not a little surprised at the 
 proceeding, h.e did so ; when the soldiers, 
 mounting each one of the other two horses, 
 and taking their places, one on the left 
 and the other on the right of their pri- 
 soner, urged his steed onwards, until all- 
 three had attained nearly the top of their 
 speed. 
 
 At this rate they continued for nearly 
 two hours ; encountering in their progress 
 many outposts of the French army, by 
 all of whom they were challenged, but al- 
 lowed readily to pass, on the reply of 
 Fauconberg's escort. 
 
 The horsemen now slackened their 
 speed, although they still continued to ad- 
 vance at so rapid a rate, that, when morn- 
 ing dawned, they had left the outermost 
 picquets of the French army far behind. 
 
 Still journeying onwards, the party came 
 to a small inn or wine-houso by the way- 
 side. Here the hussars dismounted, and 
 made a sisin to Fauconbcror to do so like- 
 wise. He complied ; when the soldiers, 
 fastening their horses to certain iron sta- 
 ples in the wall, placed there on purpose, 
 entered the house, taking Fauconberg 
 along with them, and ordered some re- 
 freshment. Some bacon, fried with eggs, 
 quickly smoked on the table, flanked by a 
 bottle of wine. 
 
 The soldiers drew in chairs, placed one 
 for their prisoner, and, pointing to it, led 
 him to understand that he was to be a 
 partaker of their good cheer. 
 
 Fauconberg thought all this a very ex- 
 traordinary way of being conducted to 
 execution, although of the latter he saw 
 but little symptoms — a cireumstanoe, 
 however, at which, it will readily be believ- 
 ed, he did not feel greatly disappointed. 
 
 In the meantime, complying with the 
 invitation so kindly given him by his 
 guards, Fauconberg took his place at ta- 
 ble ; but, considering the singular circum- 
 stances in which he was placed — the un- 
 certainty of his future fate — it is not sur- 
 prising that he could do but little justice 
 to the good thincjs before him. He could 
 cat none. 
 
 The deficiencies of Fauconberg, in this 
 particular, however, we:e amply compen- 
 sated by his guards, Avho having, appa- 
 rently, more appetite than care, ate su- 
 perbly, and drank in proportion. 
 
 Having completed their meal, in both 
 the eating and drinking departments, and 
 settled the cost thereof, the hussars, with 
 their prisoner, again mounted and pursued 
 their journey, though now much more lei- 
 surely than during any of the preceding 
 inc part of the way. 
 
 We have not hitherto interrupted the 
 
374 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 course of our narrative, nor will we do so 
 in time to come, to express or describe 
 the feeling's of Faucoubcro; on this extra- 
 ordinary occasion : wo think it best to 
 leave all that kind of thing to the imagi- 
 nation of the reader, and to hold on our- 
 selves the steady even tenor of our way. 
 
 Without stopping, then, to say what he 
 thought or felt, we will carry him forward 
 on his mysterious journey. 
 
 For two days and two nights this jour- 
 noy continued, with little intermission ; an 
 hour or two's rest only being taken at long 
 intervals, and this more on account of the 
 horses than the men. 
 
 What was the meaning of all this .'' what 
 the ultimate destination ? what the fate 
 intended for him ? were questions which 
 Fauconberg frequently asked himself, but 
 to which, of course, he could not even 
 conjecture a reply. 
 
 During all this time, no conversation 
 of any kind had passed between him and 
 hi>s guards, fox the very good reason that 
 neither understood the languao-e of the 
 other. But Fauconberg, from what he 
 observed, had reason to believe that they 
 were enjoined to hold no correspondence 
 with him, and to give him no information 
 whatever as to where he was being; taken, 
 or what it was intended his ultimate de^ 
 tiny should be. 
 
 Early on the morning of the third day, 
 Fauconberg and his escort entered France ; 
 and, towards the evening, arrived at a 
 small garrison town about forty miles from 
 the frontiers. 
 
 On gaining the former place, the hus- 
 sars, with their prisoner, rode directly up 
 to a large quadrangular castellated build- 
 ing, situated on the summit of the gentle 
 acclivity on which the town was built, and 
 which it overlooked, and, it may be added, 
 commanded : for the walls of the building 
 were pierced with embrasures, in which 
 the grim mouths of cannon displayed 
 themselves. 
 
 The structure had the appearance of a 
 prison ; and such it really was, as was but 
 
 too plainly indicated by the heavily grated 
 windows, which were interspersed, though 
 very thinly, and at wide intervals, over 
 the expansive walls. 
 
 On reachinsj this dismal-lookino- build- 
 ing, the outer gate of which was guarded 
 by two sentinels, the hussars dismounted, 
 and, leading their horses and their prisoner 
 in at the former, demanded, of a sergeant 
 on duty whom they now encountered, to 
 be conducted to the presence of the go- 
 vernor or commandant. The sergeant 
 asked what was the nature of their busi- 
 ness. This they declined telling him, 
 farther than that it was to deliver a pri- 
 soner into his hands. 
 
 " An English prisoner .'" said the ser- 
 geant. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then why not deliver him to me .^" 
 he said, with great impatience of manner. 
 ^' I have charge of the prisoners here ; and 
 will take good care of him, 1 warrant you. 
 I have 170 English prisoners here under 
 my charge, and never one effected his 
 escape from me yet." 
 
 The spokesman of the hussars content- 
 ed himself with merely replying, that his 
 orders were to deliver the prisoner into 
 the governor's hand, and none other, and 
 that these orders he would obey. 
 
 " Umph," ejaculated the sergeant, with 
 an air of offended dignity. 
 
 Then, calling to a couple of soldiers, 
 who were at a little distance, to come and 
 take charge of the liorses, he, without 
 further remark, conducted the hussars and 
 their prisoner towards a square tower 
 which formed one of the wings of the 
 buildins;, and which, from its havino; larirer 
 windows than the latter, and these un- 
 stanchioned, seemed to be the residence 
 of the governor. It was so. 
 
 Havina: ascended several flig-hts of stairs, 
 
 the sergeant led his followers into a large 
 
 apartment, used as an office or place of 
 
 business. It was occupied by several 
 
 I clerks, all busily engaged in wi'iting. 
 
 ! Making no communication to any of 
 
FAUCONBERG; OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 375 
 
 tliese, the sersieaiit advanced towards a 
 door at the further end of the apartment, 
 at which he tapped gently. 
 
 A voice within called on him to enter. 
 He did so — the hussars, with doffed caps, 
 and their prisoner, following. They were 
 now in the presence of the governor — a 
 tall, elderly, military-looking man, highly 
 powdered, and exhibiting other external 
 evidence of his being; of the old school. 
 He was seated at a desk writing when they 
 entered, but rose when the party came in. 
 " A prisoner," he said, glancing from 
 Fauconberg to the sergeant ; and then, 
 without waiting for an answer — " Why 
 bring him here — why bring him to me?" 
 he added, impatiently. " Take him away, 
 and put him amongst the others." 
 
 At this moment, one of the hussars 
 took a letter from the breast of his coat, 
 and respectfully, but without saying a 
 word, put it into the hands of the gover- 
 nor. 
 
 " What's this.?" said the latter, open- 
 ing it as he spoke. 
 
 Having read the letter, he eyed Fau- 
 conberg with a look of curiosity for seve- 
 ral seconds, but without speaking. At 
 length, nodding to the sergeant — 
 
 "You may retire," he said. "Take 
 these men with you, and leave the prison- 
 er with me." 
 
 The sergeant and the two hussars with- 
 drew from the apartment. 
 
 When they had done so, the command- 
 ant, still without saying a word to Fau- 
 conberg, rung a small silver bell ; when a 
 person of an equivocal appearance — some- 
 thing between a valet and a turnkey — en- 
 tered the apartment, and, bowing obsequi- 
 ously, waited the communication of the 
 purpose for which he had been summoned. 
 The governor spoke two or three words 
 to him, rapidly, and in a low tone ; then, 
 pointing to the door, and looking at Fau- 
 conberg, intimated to him that he should 
 follow the former, who was now about 
 
 quitting the apartment. 
 
 Fauconberg did so ; and was conducted, 
 
 by that person, up another flight of stairs, 
 which led to the governor's house. This 
 they now entered ; when the latter, having 
 previously provided himself with a key, 
 opened a door, which seemed to have been 
 always kept locked, and, bowing slightly 
 to Fauconberg, gave hini to understand 
 that he desired him to walk in. 
 
 On Fauconberg doing so, his compa- 
 nion, who continued to hold the door by 
 the key, drew it to, locked it, and left him 
 to his private meditations. 
 
 On being left alone, Fauconberg, whose, 
 mind was now relieved from the present 
 terrors of death, although not from alarm- 
 ing doubts of the final issue of his strange 
 adventure, began to examine his new 
 quarters. The result of the examination 
 was to discover to him that he had the 
 command of two apartments — a small one, 
 and a larger, the former leading off from 
 the latter. 
 
 In the small apartment was a neat and 
 clean bed, furnished with dimity curtains 
 of spotless white, a sofa, and several 
 chairs, covered with the same material, 
 forming altogether a comfortable, nay, 
 rather elegant, dormitory. 
 
 The larger apartment, a sitting-room, 
 was also handsomely furnished ; contain- 
 ing besides articles of mere utility, a small 
 library, musical instruments of various 
 kinds, and an abundant supply of writing 
 materials, which were deposited, ready for 
 use, on a small table, covered with green 
 cloth, that stood in a recess of one of the 
 windows, and beside which was placed a 
 leathern-covered easy chair. Fauconberg 
 could not, at first, conceive for whose use 
 these apartments were appropriated ; for, 
 from their isolated situation, they did not 
 seem to form any part of the governor's 
 domestic accommodations ; but, noting 
 that the windows, though much larger than 
 those in other parts of the prison, were, 
 like them, strongly secured with iron 
 stanchions, and that the door was of un- 
 usual strength, he concluded that the 
 chambers were intended as a place of con- 
 
376 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 finement for State prisoners, or prisoners 
 of rank. But how he, who was neither 
 the one nor the other, should he so honor- 
 ably accommodated, was, like all the other 
 circumstances of his extraordinary case, 
 a point on which he could not advance 
 even a plausible conjecture. 
 
 Having completed his survey of his 
 apartments, Fauconberg having previously 
 provided himself with a book, threw him- 
 self down on a sofa, and endeavored to 
 beguile his anxious wandering thoughts by 
 reading. The work he- had taken up was 
 a French one — " The Adventures of Tele- 
 machus." Being a good French scholar, 
 he read it with ease ; and although not 
 unacquainted with its English translations, 
 was delighted with its perusal in the 
 original. 
 
 He had been thus employed for about 
 an hour and a half, when the same person 
 who had first conducted him to his present 
 quarters, entered, bearing a clean white 
 towel or napkin in one baud ; in the other, 
 a plate, knife, fork, and spoon. 
 
 Having spread the first on a small round 
 table, and laid the latter, he withdrew 
 without saying a word. Shortly after, 
 he returned, retired, and again returned, 
 bearing each time some contribution or 
 other to the table, till the latter boasted 
 a roast fowl, a small loaf of bread, a plate 
 of pastries, and, though last not least, a 
 bottle of wine. 
 
 These good things all laid down in neat 
 and proper order, Fauconberg'^s purveyor, 
 and, it would appear, jailor also, made a 
 motion to him to take his place at table. 
 
 Nothing loath — for he was now begin- 
 ning to discover, and it was for the first 
 time since the night of his capture, that 
 he had still such a thing about him as an 
 appetite — Fauconberg drew in and com- 
 menced operations ; the which operations, 
 to his no gi-cat displeasure, he was left to 
 perform unwitnessed, as his attendant 
 withdrew, locking the door carefully after 
 him, so soon as he had seen his prisoner 
 seated and fairly at work. 
 
 In about half an hour the former again 
 returned — Fauconberg, in the meantime, 
 having made an excellent supper of it — 
 and, with the same silence and celerity, 
 cleared the table and bore away its furni- 
 ture, with which he had brought it in. 
 
 Our hero, shortly afterwards, retired to 
 rest, appropriating for this purpose the 
 little white dimity-curtained bed, which, 
 though not formally assigned him, he took 
 for granted was meant for the accommo- 
 dation of the inhabitant of the apartments. 
 
 On the following morning, a comfortable 
 breakfast of coffee, &c., was brought hira 
 by his attendant of the preceding day j 
 dinner and supper followed j and, thus 
 mysteriously quartered and provided for, 
 day after day passed away, week followed 
 week, and Fauconberg still continued a' 
 prisoner, though a well treated one, in the 
 fortress of Rougeville, which was the name 
 of- the place of his captivity. 
 
 In this way, three months passed away ; 
 and, during all this time, Fauconberg con- 
 tinued in the same state of ignorance of 
 the fate intended him, and of those who 
 controlled it, as on the first day of his 
 confinement. 
 
 No communication had been made to 
 him by any one. He had never again seen 
 the commandant of the fortress ; and hi* 
 immediate attendant would make no sa- 
 tisfactory answer to any of those anxious 
 inquiries which the singularity of his situ- 
 ation was constantly promptiuo-. 
 
 He was, therefore, obliged to be con- 
 tent with his position, and to augur the 
 best from the hospitable treatment he was 
 meeting with. 
 
 Three months is not a very long period y 
 but, short as it is, it often brings very re- 
 markable changes ; yet seldom, perhaps, 
 has such brief space had so many impor- 
 tant events crowded within its limits, a» 
 that which embraced Fauconberg's cap- 
 tivity in the fortress of Rougeville. 
 
 Within that short three mouths, the 
 overthrow of Buonaparte had been com- 
 pleted, and the Allied Sovereigns liad 
 
FAUCONBERG; OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 377 
 
 enteroo 
 
 >rl 
 
 as masters, the capital of 
 France. 
 
 Soon after, as is well-known, Napoleon 
 abdicated the throne, wbicli was re- 
 asccnded by the aucieut dynasty of the 
 Bourbons. 
 
 It was after the first and second of these 
 rcuiarkablc events had occurred, that as 
 Fauconbcrg was one forenoon looking out 
 of one of the windows of his prison rooms, 
 gazing listlessly on the extensive and beau- 
 tiful landscape which his elevated situation 
 com.nanded — for his apartments were on 
 the uppermost floor of the tower — he saw 
 a carriage approaching the fortress at a 
 rapid rate. 
 
 " More State prisoners," said Faucon- 
 berg to himself, iroDically. " But no, that 
 can hardly be — at least, they can scarcely 
 be prisoners of Buonaparte's making ; for 
 his day is now past. They may, however, 
 be prisoners under the new order of 
 things." 
 
 While Fauconbero; was thus communing; 
 
 O CD 
 
 with himself as to the probable freight of 
 the- approaching vehicle, and its purpose 
 in seeking the fortress, it entered the gate, 
 and drove into a courtyard immediately 
 beneath the window at which he was 
 standing. Looking on with much curi- 
 osity to see who should come forth of the 
 machine, he saw one person only, a gen- 
 tleman, step out, and enter the door vrhich 
 led to the residence of the o-overnor. 
 
 Wondering who the visitor could be, 
 yet not feeling deeply interested in the 
 matter, Fauconberji: withdrew from the 
 window, and resumed the readino of the 
 book with which he had been enjiaf/ed a 
 shoit while before. 
 
 He had not been thus emplo^'cd many 
 minutes, when he heard voices without, 
 and the noise of the key, as it was being 
 introduced into the lock of the door of his 
 apartment. The circum:-:.tanee startled 
 him a little, as he had never been intruded 
 on before by any stranger, excepting at 
 meal times. 
 
 Leaping from his seat, he awaited in 
 
 some anxiety — for the sentence of death 
 passed on him on the night he was taken, 
 had not even yet been quite forgotten — • 
 the appearance of his visitors. They en- 
 tered. First came his ordinary attendant ; 
 next, a tall, military-looking man, closelj' 
 buttoned up in a blue surtout; and, lastly, 
 the commandant of the fortress, whom he 
 now saw for the second time only. 
 
 Of the three, the person in the blue 
 surtout most attracted the attention of 
 Faucouberg ; an attention which was ac- 
 companied by no small degree of alarm ; 
 for, in this person., he recognized the ge- 
 neral before whom he had been brought on 
 the night when he was taken prisoner, and 
 by whom he had been so peremptorily and 
 summarily dismissed to execution. 
 
 Little wonder was it then that Faucon- 
 bcrg's countenance grew pale at the sight 
 of this formidable personage ; and not 
 much is it to be wondered at either, that 
 he should suppose he had come to have 
 his long- delayed sentence put into ex- 
 ecution. 
 
 Such, in truth, were the feelings, and 
 such the ideas, v.'hich the appearance of 
 this appalling visitor suggested to Faucon- 
 bcrg. 
 
 In the meantime, the turnkey, having in- 
 troduced the gentlemeu — the general and 
 commandant — into Fauconberg"s apart- 
 ments, withdrew, after a polite obeisance 
 to his superiors. 
 
 On his rctiiing, the general approached 
 Faucouberg, who was waiting the result 
 of this alarming interview in a state of 
 great perturbation, and thus opened the 
 purpose of his visit : — 
 
 " Young man, dio you recollect me .'" 
 
 " But too well, sir," replied Faucon- I 
 berg. I 
 
 The 2;eneral and commandant both 
 smiled : a circumstance from which Fau- i 
 conberg drew a favorable augury, as re- : 
 garded the object of his vLaitors. j 
 
 " Yes, young man," continued the ge- 
 neral, " you have had some reason to i 
 recollect me. The circumstances in i 
 
378 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 which we last met were not of the most 
 pleasant kind ; but they might have ended 
 still more unpleasantly for you." 
 
 Fauconberg's face crimsoned. 
 
 " Your life was justly forfeited, accord- 
 ing to the laws of war,'' resumed the 
 general ; " and, but for a singular provi- 
 dence, the forfeit would most certainly 
 have been exacted. 
 
 " When brought before me, young man, 
 on the night you were taken," continued 
 the latter, after a pause, "you gave as 
 yours the name of Fauconberg. Do you 
 still adhere to that assertion ? Is your 
 name indeed Fauconberg ; or did you 
 merely assume it for the time .?" 
 
 " My name, sir, is really and truly 
 Fauconberg ; at least it was my father's 
 name," replied he, reddening, as he ren- 
 dered this qualification. 
 
 " What do you mean by putting your 
 answer in that peculiar shape?" said the 
 general. " Were your parents not mar- 
 ried .^" 
 
 The blood again mounted to Faucon- 
 berg's brow, as he replied, hesitatingly — 
 
 " No, sir, they were not. My mother, 
 whose name, as 1 told you on a former 
 occasion, was Gardner, was a woman of 
 humble birth. My father was, as I have 
 been told, a man of noble descent." 
 
 " Of what country P^ inquired the ge- 
 neral. 
 
 " A Frenchman," replied Fauconberg. 
 
 The general and the commandant ex- 
 chano-ed significant looks. 
 
 " x\ Frenchman," repeated the former. 
 
 " Yes, sir, a Frenchman ; an emigre, 
 as 1 understand," continued Fauconberg ; 
 " driven from his country by the Revolu- 
 tion." 
 
 Again the general and commandant ex- 
 changed looks. 
 
 " Have you ever seen your father, 
 young man .^" inquired the general. 
 
 " No, sir. He left our place while I 
 was yet but an infant, and never again 
 returned." 
 
 '' Did he desert you entirely .?" said the 
 
 general. " Did he do nothing for you 
 and your mother .'" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," replied Fauconberg. 
 " In that respect he was not wanting. He 
 remitted a yearly sum, and an ample one, 
 for my support and education ; which last 
 he desired to be specially attended to." 
 
 " And was it so .^" said the general. 
 
 " It was," replied Fauconberg. " What 
 use I may have made of it, it is not for me 
 to say ; but, of instruction, I have had 
 abundance, in various departments of 
 learning." 
 
 " Your mother is dead. I mean — I 
 mean," continued the general, with some 
 embarrassment of manner, as if he had 
 committed himself — " I mean, is your 
 mother dead r'' 
 
 " She is, sir," replied Fauconberg, in 
 some surprise at the general's slip, which 
 did not escape him. " She died several 
 years ago." 
 
 The latter now took several turns up 
 and down the apartment, saying nothing, 
 but seemingly in considerable agitation. 
 
 At length, again confronting Faucon- 
 berg — 
 
 " Young man," he said solemnly, " / 
 am your father." 
 
 " There can be little doubt of that," 
 here interposed the commandant, smiling. 
 It was the first time he had spoken during 
 this singular interview. " Any one who 
 sees you together cannot doubt of his being 
 your son, general. The resemblance is 
 very striking." 
 
 "I think it is," replied the general, 
 now also smiling. 
 
 What Fauconberg's feelings were, on 
 this extraordinary occasion, we need not 
 say : they were overpowering. To find in 
 the man before whom he had been carried 
 a prisoner — in the man who had adjudged 
 him to a violent death — and who had, as 
 he at the time thought, so harshly ordered 
 him to execution — to find in the French 
 general before him, a father — a father 
 whom he had never seen, and whom he 
 had never dreamt of ever seeing — was a 
 
FAUCONBERG ; OR, THE EMIGRE. 
 
 379- 
 
 circumstance whicli might well disturb the 
 equanimity of the most callous and apa- 
 thetic. 
 
 Faucoubcrg was none of these ; and 
 great, therefore, was his emotion on the 
 extraordinary discovery being made. 
 These emotions, however, he controlled 
 as well as he could ; and, after returning, 
 with tenderness, the embrace with which 
 his father followed up the announcement 
 of his relationship, he respectfully awaited 
 the communication of his new-found pa- 
 rent's further pleasure regarding him, as 
 he did not doubt that he would now, and 
 henceforth, take an interest in his welfare, 
 and seek to control, or at least to advise 
 as to his future proceedings. In the mean- 
 time, Fauconberg saw at once, in the cir- 
 cumstance which had just occurred, a 
 solution of the mysteries of his rescue from 
 death, and of his subsequent hospitable 
 treatment. 
 
 He had now no doubt that he was in- 
 debted for all to his father ; and in this 
 conjecture he was not wrong, as the latter 
 now informed him. 
 
 " Besides my desire to keep you where 
 I might readily find you, when circum- 
 stances permitted it," added Fauconberg 's 
 father, after informing his son that it was 
 by his orders the hussars had acted in 
 carrying him a prisoner into France, " I 
 could not, without a gross dereliction of 
 my duty, have liberated you entirely ; see- 
 ing that you must have been in possession 
 of information regarding our position 
 which might have been highly injurious to 
 us, if communicated to the enemy ; and I 
 could have had no security that you would 
 not communicate what you knew, should 
 you have been again permitted to join the 
 British army : indeed, consistently with 
 your duty, you must have done so. Mine 
 was to prevent you — the more especially 
 that, in rescuing you from death, I had 
 already done much more than I was war- 
 ranted in doing, and for which I had ren- 
 
 dered myself liable to the severest repre- 
 hension. This part of the business^ 
 however, I got over, by giving assurance 
 of your safe custody — the only condition! 
 on which I could possibly have saved your 
 life. 
 
 ^' To secure you good treatment in your 
 captivity, and which you have no doubt 
 met with, I addressed a letter to my friend, 
 the commandant here, requesting this 
 kindness at his hands — stating our rela- 
 tionship, but entreating him to say nothing 
 of his knowledge of this circumstance to 
 you. This 1 wished to be the first to com- 
 municate myself. I, besides, wished to be 
 farther assured of your identity — further 
 assured, in short, that you were my son. 
 The particulars on which I lately ques- 
 tioned you, and which you have so satis- 
 factorily answered, added to the resem- 
 blance between us, which my friend here 
 has remarked, has given me this assurance, 
 and on this point I am perfectly satisfied. 
 I am, let me also add, young man, well 
 pleased with your appearance, your man- 
 ner, your intelligence ; and proud of your 
 bravery, of which I had satisfactory proof 
 on the trying occasion on which we first 
 met." 
 
 The general then proceeded to inform 
 his son that, as the war was now at an end, 
 it was his intention to retire to, and spend 
 the remainder of his days on his paternal 
 estate ; adding that, if Fauconberg had no 
 objection, and was bound by no particular 
 ties to return to his native country, he 
 desired he should accompany him. 
 
 To his father's proposal, young Faucon- 
 berg readily consented. 
 
 On that day the general and his son 
 dined with the commandant of the fortress 
 of Rougeville. On the next, they set out 
 for the residence of the former — one of 
 the handsomest chateaux in the south of 
 France. Six years afterwards, young 
 Fauconberg''s father died, and the former 
 succeeded to his fortune and estates. 
 
380 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 '^^ It's in Vciiii to struggle langcr wi' the 
 stream, Elleanor — I caiiua do it. My 
 strength is worn out, and my spirit ex- 
 hausted, in the weary strife. The current 
 o' adversity is owre strong for me, Ellea- 
 nor ; sae I mauu just yield to it, and allow 
 it to overwhelm me." 
 
 " Oh, dinna say that, James — dinna say 
 that," replied the young and beautiful 
 wife of the unfortunate man who gnve ut- 
 terance to this desponding language. 
 *' Dinna say that, my James," she said 
 throwing her arms around his neck, and 
 gazing in his face with a look at once of 
 sorrow and affection. " There's better 
 days in store for us ; and haena we, in the 
 meantime, the love o' each other's hearts 
 to compensate for the want o' warld's 
 gear .-" 
 
 James Williamson did not repel the en- 
 dearments of his wife, nor reject the -con- 
 solation which she would offer ; for, moody 
 and stern as his misfortunes had rendered 
 him, to her he was still the same kind and 
 gentle being he had ever been ; Elleanor 
 he still loved, as he had ever done, with 
 the most devoted affection ; and it was, in 
 truth, the reflection that he had involved 
 her in his miseries and sufferings that gave 
 to his feelings at this moment the bitter- 
 ness and poignancy vrhich rendered them 
 so intolerable. 
 
 James Williamson and Elleanor Dennis- 
 toun had been married but a few months ; 
 yet, in ti\at short time, irretrievable ruin 
 had overtaken them in so far as regarded 
 their worldly circumstances. An unfor- 
 tunate speculation in grain, into which 
 Williamson, who was a small farmer in 
 Berwickshire, had rashly entered, involved 
 him in difficulties, from which he felt it to 
 bo all but impossible he should ever be 
 
 able to extricate himself. Bankruptcy, 
 with all its appalling consequences, ejec- 
 tion from his farm, and a total bereave- 
 ment of all he had in the world, stared 
 him in the face, and drove him to despair. 
 
 On the occasion to which the opening 
 of our story refers, Williamson had ju.st 
 received a letter from an importunate cre- 
 ditor, threatening that a caption, which he 
 had against him for £150, would certainly 
 be put in force within three days, if the 
 amount, with interest snd expenses, were 
 not then paid ; and thus was added to his 
 other miseries the dread of a jail — to poor 
 Williamson one of the most disgraceful 
 and appalling visitations vrhich it was in 
 the power of misfortune to inflict. 
 
 It was, then, on returning home after 
 receiving this letter, that Williamson, who 
 had hoped, notwithstanding the desperate 
 state of his affairs, that, if time were given 
 him, he might possibl}'' have weathered the 
 storm, gave utterance to the language of 
 despair in which we have represented him 
 indulging. He had, a few days before, 
 solicited time from the creditor who was 
 now threatenin2; him with extreme mca- 
 sures, and the refusal of this indulgence 
 had deprived him of all heart and ail 
 hope. 
 
 Williamson, as we have said, did not 
 reject the consolation which his gentle and 
 affectionate wife offered him in his afflic- 
 tion. He returned her caresses with the 
 same tenderness with which the}- were 
 bestowed, and acknowledged her words of 
 comfort with a look of kind regard ; but 
 it was accompanied by a faint smile of 
 incredulity, which their vagu.uiess, when 
 opposed to the stern and positive evils 
 towards which they were directed, could 
 \ not but excite. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 381 
 
 '• We have, indeed, the love o' each 
 other's hearts, my Elleanor, to console 
 us." replied Williamson, " and I value 
 yours as the greatest treasure on earth ; 
 but what will it avail us in our contest 
 with the world ? It canna shield us frae 
 the storm o' adversity, nor avert the evils 
 that are threatenin us.'"* 
 
 " No, James," said Elleanor — "it can 
 do neither ; but it can help us to endure 
 them ; and I hope things are no sae bad 
 but that they may yet mend wi' us." 
 
 Her husband shook his head ; but it 
 was some time before he made any reply. 
 At length — 
 
 "Elleanor," he said,"! hae hitherto 
 concealed frae ye the extent and urgency 
 (•' the evils which threaten us — and I hae 
 dune this oot o' tenderness to you. ; but I 
 tiiiak it now necessary that you should 
 know all, and know the worst, that, in case 
 any part of my future conduct may stand 
 in need o"* an apology, ye may hae ane to 
 refer to." 
 
 " What do ye mean, James ? what do 
 ye mean, my ain dear James ?" exclaimed 
 Elleanor, alarmed at the ambiguity of her 
 husband's language, which seemed to point 
 at some desperate proceeding. " What 
 do ye mean ?" she said, again embracing 
 him, and now bursting inta an agony of 
 tears. " Surely misfortune's no gaun to 
 gar ye forget yersel, or to drive ye to do 
 ony thing that's unworthy o' ye .^" 
 
 ■•' Oh, no, no, my Elleanor, have no fear 
 of that," replied the husbandy smiling, but 
 embracing her tenderly ; then, waiving any 
 further discussion on the subject, he pro- 
 ceeded to inform her precisely o-f the situ- 
 ation in which he stood, and concluded by 
 throwing down the letter which threatened 
 him with instant and summary proceed- 
 ings, saying, as he did so — 
 
 " And ye see, Elleanor, they'll not only 
 leave us houseless and landless ; but they'll 
 hae me dragged to a prison like a thief or 
 a murderer. That I canna stand. A' but 
 ihctt^ I think I might bear. But that I 
 cauna, I winna encounter." 
 
 Elleanor took up and read the letter 
 
 which her husband threw down ; and when 
 
 she had done so — 
 
 ' " Aweel, James, even in a jail we can be 
 
 j happy in each other. They'll alloo me tO' 
 
 I gae wi' ye, 1 fancy. But dinna ye think 
 
 yer uncle would lend ye as much as pay 
 
 I this debt, as it seems the maist pressin r" 
 
 j " I doot it, I doot it very much," repli- 
 
 I ed Williamson ; " for there's little o' th-e 
 
 j milk o' human kindness in him. But I 
 
 ' may try him. It's our last and only 
 
 ! chance. ]f that fails" Flere the 
 
 speaker stopped short, and left the sentence 
 unfinished. 
 
 The application to Williamson^s uncle, 
 alluded to, was made on the following day ; 
 but it was made in vain. He would give 
 no assistance. On returning home from 
 his fruitless mission to his relatives, Wil- 
 liamson threw down his bonnet, and, ad- 
 dressing his wife — 
 
 " Well, Elleanor y" he said, " the die 
 is cast. The last throw is thrown, and it 
 has turned up a blank. It is just as I 
 expected : my unele winna advance me a 
 penny, and to-morrow I maun gang to jail 
 — that is," he said, after a pause^ " if I 
 war fule eneuch to wait till they took me. 
 I'll gie up a' to the last penny, but no' my 
 liberty. That they shanna tak frae me-', 
 if I can help it." 
 
 Williamson now proceeded to explain 
 to his wife that it was his intention to go 
 out of the way for some time ; and in the 
 propriety of this measure he succeeded m 
 obtaining her a.cquiesccn8e. The arrange»- 
 ments eonsoipent on this contemplated 
 proceeding were — that Elleanor should 
 go to reside with an aunt of hers, witi 
 whom slie was a great favorite, and with 
 whom, her fibther and mother being both 
 dead, she had lived previous to and at the 
 time of her marriage ; and that a ccrtaia 
 confidenti;il friend of Williamson's should 
 look after his interests in the proceedings 
 of his creditors, and, in the meantime, take 
 charge of his effects. All this being ad- 
 justed, Williamson, early on the third 
 
382 
 
 TALES OF THE BOR-DERS. 
 
 moruing after the day on wMda our story 
 opens, arose. It was the last he was to 
 see from the windows of his pleasant little 
 dwcllino- at Woodlee : for his landlord was 
 his largest creditor, and would, as a matter 
 of course, eject him, and seize upon his 
 stock and farming implements. This 
 landlord, Williamson had .never seen. He 
 was too great a man to admit of his hold- 
 ing any direct personal correspondence 
 with his tenants, especially with one so 
 humble as James Williamson. He was a 
 lord — Lord Allenton. 
 
 It was with his facto.r, then, that Wil- 
 liamson had had always to deal; and, 
 from his previous experience of this gen- 
 tleman's official practice, he felt that he 
 had hut littk lenity to expect in that 
 quarter. Good reason, then^ had the un- 
 fortunate man to mutter to himself, as he 
 did, on looking abroad on the beautiful 
 and peaceful scene which his window over- 
 looked, on the morning to which we allude, 
 that it was the last time he should behold 
 it from the same situation. Having affec- 
 tionately embraced his wife, and repeated 
 for the thousandth time a promise to write 
 to her often, and to return to her the 
 moment his affairs permitted, Williamson 
 bade her farewell, and set out to proceed 
 to Glasgow, where it had been previously 
 arranged he should reside until such an 
 adjustment of his matters had taken place 
 as should secure his personal safety. This, 
 however, was an affair not so easily ac- 
 complished—or rather it was one which 
 could not be accomplished. The factor of 
 Lord Allenton, who found himself consi- 
 derably short of the arrears due by Wil- 
 liamson, stood out, and would give no 
 quarter. All the other creditors were 
 satisfied ; but he remained obstinate, and 
 would listen to no proposals of compro- 
 mise. In the meantime, Williamson, 
 faithful to his promise to his wife, had 
 written to her frequently, and always in 
 the most affectionate terms ; but his let- 
 ters gradually became more desponding, 
 ai= time passed away without bringing a 
 
 final adjustment of his affairs, and kept 
 him in hopeless and listless indolence, at a 
 distance from all he held dear. From the 
 language of despondency, poor Williamson 
 at length employed that of despair, and 
 exhibited, in the following letier, a con- 
 summation resulting from that feeling, for 
 which his unfortunate wife was but little 
 
 prepared. 
 
 " My dearest, dearest Elleanor, — The 
 intelligence which this letter will convey 
 to you, will distract you. I feel, I know 
 it will ; but 1 trust the hopeless state of 
 my affairs will plead my apology. I have 
 enlisted, Elleanor. I have taken up the 
 musket. I saw nothing else for it. I 
 could not return to you ; or, if I did. and 
 escaped a prison, which is not likely, I 
 ^ould not have supported you in the ease 
 and comfort which you now enjoy, vdih 
 your kind aunt, and from which 1 should 
 reckon it a cruelty to withdraw you — a 
 consequence that would result from my 
 return. Believe me, my dearest Elleanor, 
 that whatever changes may take place in 
 my circumstances or condition, none shall 
 ever occur in the feelings I entertain to- 
 wards you. These will remain unaltered 
 through all the vicissitudes of life, let these 
 vicissitudes be what they may." 
 
 Much in a similar strain with this fol- 
 lowed, including many regretful references 
 to their once happy abode at Woodlee, 
 which the writer expressed a fear he might 
 never again behold. Williamson then 
 proceeded to detail to his wife various par- 
 ticulars relative to his n«w duties, informed 
 her of the number of his regiment, and 
 concluded by assuring her that he would 
 regularly inforpi her of everything that 
 •occurred to him, of the smallest interest. 
 
 It would serve little purpose to describe 
 the feelings of Elleanor on reading this, 
 to her, -most heart-rending letter. Her 
 first idea was to fly to her husband, and to 
 share with him all the dangers and priva- 
 tions to which his new life might expose 
 him ; but from this resolution she was, 
 although not without great difficulty, dis- 
 
 1 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIPE. 
 
 SS3 
 
 suaded by her aunt. Nor would the 
 efforts of that relative in this way have 
 been successful, had they not been se- 
 conded by the earnest entreaties of her 
 husband himself that she would at no time 
 think of taking such a step. He had 
 feared that she would insist on joining 
 him ; and, shocked at the idea of her 
 being exposed to the hardships and humi- 
 liations of a soldier's wife, had cautioned 
 her acjainst enteitainini' for an instant the 
 thought of becoming one otherwise than in 
 name. 
 
 At this point of our story, an interval 
 of three years occurs, during which no 
 change had taken place in the fortunes of 
 either Williamson or his wife. The for- 
 mer still continued in the army, and the 
 latter still remained with her aunt. Al- 
 though no change, however, had taken 
 place in Williamson's fortunes in this 
 time, many had taken place in the locali- 
 ties of his residence. He had been moved 
 with his corps from one destination to 
 another ; and was, when we resume our 
 tale, at the seat of war in the Netherlands. 
 
 Williamson had, by this time, seen some 
 service. He had be-en in two or three en- 
 gagements ; and, although he had distin- 
 guished himself by his bravery, had hither- 
 to escaped uninjured. But it was not in 
 the field alone that he had made himself 
 remarkable ; he enjoyed an equal reputa- 
 tion for steadiness and orderly conduct in 
 quarters. In the meantime, the hostile 
 spirit of the nations of Europe was coming 
 to a crisis ; a mighty consummation was 
 at hand. On the plains of Waterloo, the 
 power, and greatness, and glory of Napo- 
 leon, were about to be overthrown and 
 trodden in the dust. 
 
 It is well known that, for some time 
 previous to that tremendous battle, a ge- 
 neral feeling prevailed over all Europe, 
 that a great and decisive struggle was ap- 
 proaching : that a day of deadly strife, 
 such as the world had never seen, was 
 about to dawn on the mighty hosts of 
 armed men who were hurriedly converg- 
 
 ing, from various and distant lands, towards 
 that point which destiny had marked for 
 the last and closing scene of Europe's 
 long-continued and sanguinary warfare. 
 
 One of the atoms, in this huge mass of 
 humanity, on hostile purpose intent, was 
 James Williamson. He was quartered 
 with his regiment in Brussels, and with 
 that regiment marched out to battle on 
 the memorable mornino; of the fif>-ht of 
 Quatre Bras. Two days afterwards, he 
 was in the "• ranks of death," mustered 
 on the field of Waterloo. Leaving him 
 here, to share in the fatigues and dangers 
 of that sanguinary day, we shall attach 
 ourselves to a personage whom we hope to 
 render no less worthy of our sympathy and 
 interest. 
 
 On the morning of the day on which the 
 battle of Waterloo was fought, a young 
 woman, a stranger, who had just arrived 
 in Brussels, was seen hurrying distractedly 
 through the streets, inquiring of every one 
 she met, if they could tell her where she 
 could find the — th resriment. None could 
 inform her, because none knew the lan- 
 guage in which she addressed them. It 
 was English. At length, however, she 
 ascertained that the re^ment she sousrht 
 
 O O 
 
 had left Brussels two days before, and that 
 it was at that moment on the field of Wa- 
 terloo, where the mighty contest had al- 
 ready begun, as was ominously intimated 
 by the distant roar of cannon, to which 
 her informant called her attention at the 
 moment he spoke. The young woman 
 listened for an instant to the appalling 
 sound of the artillery, whose thunders 
 rolled onwards, in an unintermitting suc- 
 cession of dull and heavy peals — and she 
 grew pale as she listened ; but it was not 
 the paleness of a timid or a shrinking 
 spirit. It was the effect of a deep, an 
 agitating sympathy for those who were 
 exposed to the perils of the day, associated 
 with distracting fears for the safety of one, 
 in particular, who was a sharer in those 
 dangers. 
 1 Having, as we have said, listened for a 
 
584 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 moment to the roar of the cannon, the 
 young woman hurriedly inquired for the 
 road that l^d to the field of battle. It was 
 pointed out to her. She immediately 
 availed herself of the information, and 
 hastened on towards Waterloo. But she 
 had not gone far, ere she encountered 
 sights that might well have appalled a 
 stouter heart than hers. These were 
 wagons filled with wounded soldiers, being 
 conveyed from the field of battle to Brus- 
 sels. On some of these Death had alrea- 
 dy set his seal ; the fatal impress of which 
 mis^ht be marked on their livid and ghast- 
 ly countenances, or traced in the total 
 prostration of their vital energies. Others, 
 a2;ain, whose wounds were not mortal, yet 
 dreadfully severe, exhibited that languid, 
 sickly, fainting look, which betokens the 
 extremity of bodily suffering. All, all was 
 appalling to behold, and it did appal the 
 lonely and unprotected young woman on 
 whose sight it now fell, and who was hur- 
 rying on to the fearful source from whence 
 all this misery proceeded ; but it did not 
 for a moment shake the resolution which 
 ursed her on the course she was pursuing, 
 nor make her swerve from the purpose 
 which prompted her daring adventure. 
 As she neared the field of strife she 
 
 heard — 
 
 " The cannon's roar, 
 Nearer, clearer, deadlier than before." 
 
 Nor was this alone the only indication of 
 her near approach to the scene of the 
 mio^hty contest. Dismantled cannon, and 
 broken arms of various kinds, intermingled 
 with military caps, and fragments of mili- 
 tary accoutrements, met her at every step, 
 and told of partial combats between the 
 remoter parties of the hostile armies. 
 Here and there, too, a dead body intimat- 
 ed in language still more unequivocal the 
 horrid work that was sroino; forward. Un- 
 dismayed by these appalling sounds, our 
 heroine held on her way, till at length the 
 great scene of strife itself — the field of 
 Waterloo, covered with its tens of thou- 
 sands of fighting men engaged in mortal 
 
 combat — burst, in all its wild and fearful 
 magnificence, on her view, and till she 
 found herself getting involved in the 
 movements of the troops. On discover- 
 ino; this last circumstance, she left the 
 road, and struck through some fields on 
 the left, for the purpose of gaining a soli- 
 tary knoll at some distance, that seemed 
 at once to be out of the way of the move- 
 ments of the hostile armies, and to promise 
 a complete view of the field of battle. 
 Having gained this eminence, she sat down, 
 and gazed, with awe-stricken eye and 
 beatino; heart, on the tremendous scene 
 before her. But how vain, how idle, was 
 at least one of the objects for which she 
 now so intently scanned the fieldof battle ! 
 It was to see if she could, by any sign or 
 circumstance, discover the position of the 
 — th regiment. She had earnestly and 
 eagerly asked every party, nay, every in- 
 dividual she had met as she came along, 
 if they could tell her where the — th regi- 
 ment was. None could inform her, and 
 most laughed at the absurdity of the in- 
 quiry. Idle, therefore, and vain in the 
 last degree, it will be seen, was now her 
 attempt to distinguish, amongst so many 
 thousands, and these, too, constantly 
 changing their positions, that particular 
 corps in which she seemed so interested, 
 and which, moreover, she had no outward 
 mark whatever by which to distinguish it, 
 even were it otherwise possible. While 
 thus situated, and thus hopelessly employ- 
 ed, the young woman was suddenly start- 
 led, by hearing the moaning of a person 
 in distress, at no great distance from where 
 she sat. She instantly arose, looked 
 around her, and discovered a wounded 
 soldier lying on the ground, half concealed 
 by some brushwood — which shelter he had 
 evidently sought before he fell. On hear- 
 ing these sounds, and seeing the prostrate 
 warrior, all the woman rose within her, 
 and she hurried to the assistance of the 
 sufferer. He proved to be a British offi- 
 cer. He was severely wounded, and in 
 
 the last stasre of exhaustion. On seeimr 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 385 
 
 the condition of the apparently dying 
 soldier, our heroine, instinctively impress- 
 ed with a confidance in the invisroratino: 
 and refreshino; eflfects of a little cold water 
 in such a case as that before her, instant- 
 ly snatched up the wounded man's cap, 
 and, hurrying to a brook that was hard by, 
 filled it with the simple element. This, 
 on returning to the sufferer, she sprinkled 
 gently on his pallid countenance, and with 
 it bathed his burnins; forehead. The 
 beneficial effects of the cooling application 
 were made immediately apparent. The 
 wounded man opened his eyes, and, after 
 gazing for a moment, with a look of be- 
 wilderment, on the fair countenance that 
 was wistfully and sympathizingly hanging 
 over him, muttered the word " water." 
 
 Again his ministering angel, who had 
 been thus so strangely sent to his relief, 
 hastened to the brook, and returned with 
 another supply of that element which was 
 now so highly prized. Raising him gently 
 up, she held the water to his parched lips. 
 The wounded man drank greedily, and 
 was instantly restored to consciousness, 
 and to a state of comparative vigor. He 
 now sat up, and was able to express the 
 gratitude he felt to the fair strano;er, 
 whom heaven seemed to have sent thus 
 opportunely to his aid. But that fair 
 stranger's benevolent ministrations did 
 not terminate with those acts of kindness 
 already mentioned. She did more. She 
 took a shawl from her shoulders, tore it 
 into strips, and with these bound up the 
 soldier's bleeding wounds. After all this 
 had been done, and the latter had so far 
 recovered as to be able to express all he 
 felt— 
 
 " Who, in heaven's name," he said, ad- 
 dressing his fair friend — " who, in heaven's 
 name, are you .'' Where are you from ? 
 and what on earth brought you here ,?" 
 
 The young woman blushed, and smil- 
 ingly replied — " I am from Scotland, 
 sir^" 
 
 "From Scotland I" exclaimed the 
 wounded officer. " My own dear native 
 
 VOT,. Tf. 
 
 63 
 
 land ! From Scotland are you, my guar- 
 dian angel ? Then, indeed, is this extra- 
 ordinary circumstance complete. The 
 gentle hand that has administered to my 
 relief in my sad necessities — that has, 
 under God, restored me to life, and saved 
 me from perishing on the field— is that of 
 a countrywoman." 
 
 Having said this, he again asked her 
 what had brought her into such a danger- 
 ous neighborhood. The young woman re- 
 plied, that her husband was in the — th 
 regiment, and that she had come there to 
 watch for him, that, in case he should be 
 wounded, she might be at hand to aid him, 
 and to attend on him. 
 
 The wounded officer appreciated all the 
 heroism, the tender and ardent affection, 
 which this declaration indicated ; but he 
 could not refrain from smiling at the sim- 
 plicity of character which it also discover- 
 ed. A young woman venturing alone 
 towards a battle-field, to be in readiness 
 to administer relief to a wounded husband, 
 whom she had not the slightest chance of 
 meeting with — where, of many thousands, 
 he was but one, and these spread over a 
 field of many miles in extent — seemed to 
 him, as it really was, the very extreme of 
 uncalculating love. Of all this, however, 
 the wounded officer took no notice. He 
 rightly conceived that any remark on it 
 would be ungracious, and he therefore 
 made none ; but he resolved, if he could 
 by any means prevent it, that he would 
 not permit her to expose herself any fur- 
 ther in so hopeless a pursuit ; and a cir- 
 cumstance at this instant occurred, which, 
 singularly enough, brought that about 
 which he, in his present circumstances, 
 could only desire. Descrying a British 
 wagon with wounded passing on the road 
 (which was at the distance of about a 
 quarter of a mile) towards Brussels, he 
 requested his guardian angel, as he called 
 our heroine, to do him one other act of 
 kindness, by going down to the road, and 
 informing the escort by which the wagon 
 was accompanied, of his condition, and 
 
386 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 desiring that a partj should be sent to re- 
 move him. The escort of the wagon 
 •was composed of a party of the — th : of 
 that regiment which the fair messenger 
 had so anxiously and vainly inquired for. 
 She approached it. She waved to the 
 party to stop. They obeyed the signal ; 
 but looked with amazement at the person 
 who made it. To see a yoimg female in 
 such a situation, and alone, was, to the 
 soldiers, matter of inexpressible surprise. 
 The young woman leaped a small ditch 
 that separated the road from the field. 
 She had scarcely done so, when one of the 
 soldiers who formed the escort suddenly 
 threw down his musket, and, rushing wildly 
 towards her, enfolded her in his arms ; 
 exclaiming, in a transport of mingled joy 
 and surprise — 
 
 " Heavens ? Elleanor, Elleanor ! my 
 own dear Elleanor !" 
 
 "James !" exclaimed Elleanor (the se- 
 cret is now out, good reader — it was indeed 
 Elleanor, and no other), in a voice faint 
 with emotion ; and, without adding an- 
 other word, she flung hergelf, in an ecstacy 
 of speechless happiness, on her husband's 
 neck. 
 
 " What on earth brought you here El- 
 leanor ? and above all, what on earth 
 brought you here at such a time as this .?" 
 said her husband, after the first transports 
 of their meeting had subsided, and looking 
 her afiectionately in the face while he 
 spoke. 
 
 Elleanor blushed and looked down. 
 There were too many witnesses present, 
 too many eyes upon her, to allow her to 
 explain herself ; but she said shortly, and 
 in a tone so low as not to be heard by any 
 one but him for whom the information 
 was intended — " It was to take care of 
 you, James, in case anything should have 
 happened you." James acknowledged the 
 devoted afi"ection of his wife by a smile 
 and gentle pressure of her hand. 
 
 Williamson would now have pressed his 
 wife for a history of her journey, and pro- 
 ceedings connected with it, but was at the 
 
 ;poment prevented, by her stating the 
 mission on which she came from th« 
 wounded officer, and her urging that iiD- 
 mediate assistane-e ghould be sent hira. 
 The request was instantly complied with, 
 A party, of which her husba»d was one, 
 proceeded, accompanied by Elleanor, to 
 where the officer lay. None of the sol- 
 diers knew him personally; but Williamson 
 thought he had seen the countenance 
 somewhere before, but when, where, or in 
 what circumstances, he could not at all 
 recollect. On this subject, however, he 
 made no remark. The wounded officer, on 
 being told by Elleanor that she had found 
 her husband, expressed the utmost satis- 
 faction with the very singular circum- 
 stance ; and, on the latter's being pointed 
 out to him, took him kindly by the hand, 
 and informed him, and all the others pre- 
 sent, how much he was indebted to his 
 wife for her most opportune and friendly 
 aid. 
 
 " I shall always consider," he said, 
 " the aid which she afi"orded me as bavins 
 been the means of saving my life ; and it 
 shall be my first care, on arriving at Brus- 
 sels, to see that the important service is 
 as fully acknowledged as it is already 
 appreciated.'' 
 
 Nothing more of any interest at this 
 moment passed. The wounded officer, 
 who was a young and handsome man, with 
 the air and manner of a person of high 
 birth and breeding, was removed to the 
 wagon ; in which proceeding Williamson 
 was especially anxious and careful to sub- 
 ject him to as little suffering as possible ; 
 and, soon after, the whole party resumed 
 their march, and in a few hours afterwards, 
 reached Brussels in safety. On their ar- 
 rival there, the young officer, who had yet 
 only announced himself as a captain in the 
 — d regiment of infantry, without adding 
 his name, was conveyed, by his own de- 
 sire, to a hotel, where, on parting with 
 Williamson, he desired him to call on him 
 on the following forenoon ; having ascer- 
 tained previously that the party to which 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 387 
 
 the former belonixed had duties assisrned 
 them which would prevent their returning 
 to the field ; and that, therefore, this 
 would be fully in Williamson's power. 
 He also requested that the wife of the lat- 
 ter should accompany him on the occasion 
 of his visit. With these requests Wil- 
 liamson promised compliance in his own 
 name, and in that of his wife, who had 
 not, of course, accompanied the party that 
 conveyed the wounded man into the bed- 
 room which he was to occupy, but waited 
 her husband's return on the street. 
 
 In the meantime, intelliiience of the 
 victory of Waterloo had reached the city, 
 and a scene of wild excitation and confu- 
 sion followed, that it is more easy to con- 
 ceive than describe. Every street and 
 alley, every tavern, every house of enter- 
 tainment, of lesser as well as larger note, 
 filled, durinor the nisht, with straijcrlers 
 from the army, and private houses with 
 the wounded. So great, indeed, was the 
 confusion and turmoil on the following 
 day — these having rather increased than 
 diminished — that both Wiliiamson and 
 Elleanor began to think of abandoning all 
 idea of fulfilling their promise to wait on 
 the wounded officer of the — d ; and to 
 this they were induced by recollecting that 
 he had omitted to give them his name, and 
 they to ask it, and by learning that the 
 house in which he had taken up his quar- 
 ters was filled with persons of a similar 
 rank, and in a similar condition. Indeed, 
 EUeanor had all along been against troub- 
 ling him further ; saying, that, in doing 
 what she did for him, she had merely dis- 
 charged a duty, and that she neither ex- 
 pected nor desired any reward but what 
 her own feelings afforded her. Her bus- 
 band, however, ultimately came to the reso- 
 lution of making the promised visit, which, 
 on refiiection, it appeared to him it would 
 be ungracious to withhold, and finally 
 prevailed on his wife to accompany him. 
 On arriving at the hotel, they found, as 
 they expected, from the want of the name 
 of the officer whom they sought, great 
 
 difficulty in finding him, owing to the great 
 number of other officers who were in the 
 house., and more especially from the rather 
 odd circumstance of there being no less 
 than other three captains of the same 
 regiment in the hotel at the very moment. 
 By dint of frequent inquiry, however, and 
 the exercise of some perseverance in the 
 pursuit, they at last found the person they 
 wanted. He was stretched upon a couch 
 or sofa, and was in such spirits as shewed 
 that his wounds, though they might be, 
 and certainly were, of a very serious 
 character, were yet by no means mortal, 
 nor even very dangerous. Having express- 
 ed the utmost delight at seeing his visi- 
 tor 
 
 '^ Now, my guardian angel," he said, 
 smiling, and addressing Elleanor, " what 
 can I do for you that will sufficiently ex- 
 press the gratitude I feel for the assistance 
 you rendered me yesterday V 
 
 Elleanor blushingly replied, that she 
 wanted no reward — that such was not her 
 motive for what she did — and that she was 
 perfectly satisfied with the reflection, that 
 she had aided a fellow- creature in the 
 hour of his need. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the captain, smiling ; 
 " all very well, my kind, good lady ; but, 
 though that may satisfy you, it will not 
 satisfy me. By the way," he abruptly 
 added, " I believe 1 have never yet told 
 you who I am. I forgot to give you my 
 address. My name is AUenton, I" 
 
 " Allenton, sir !" here hurriedly inter- 
 rupted Williamson. " Excuse me, sir. 
 Are you the Hon. Captain James AUenton, 
 son of Lord Allenton .^" 
 
 "The same, my good fellow," replied 
 Captain Allenton, with a smile and a look 
 of some surprise. " Do you know me, or 
 any of my friends in Berwickshire, in 
 Scotland V 
 
 " That I do sir : know your father well, 
 and I knew you too when a boy, that is to 
 say, I know your father as an humble ten- 
 ant may know a great landlord, and you 
 as his son.'' 
 
SS8 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Why, this is odd," said Captain Allen- 
 ton ; " very add." 
 
 " You were a tenant of my father's, 
 then. Pray, where did ycvu live .^" 
 
 " At Woodlee, sir," replied William- 
 son. 
 
 " Ah, I reccllect the place well. x\ 
 
 heautiful spot." 
 
 " It is-, sir," said Williamson, with a 
 sigh, which was responded to by his wife. 
 " Would I were there again T Many a 
 happy day 1 have spent in it." 
 
 " And why did you leave it, my good 
 fellow.^" inquired Captain Allenton, in a 
 friendly tone. 
 
 Williamson answered the question by 
 briefly recapitulating certain of those par- 
 ticulars of his history which are already be- 
 fore the reader. 
 
 When be had done, Captain Allenton, 
 after thinking for some little time, asked 
 him, directing the question by a look at 
 the same time to his wife, whether he 
 would like to be again set down at Wood- 
 lee. 
 
 " Oh, sir, Eo thing on earth we would 
 like so well as that," exclaimed Elleanor ; 
 " but that's ont o' the question now.'' 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Captain Allenton, 
 musingly. Then added, after a pause — 
 
 " I think I could manage that matter for 
 you, if you really wish it ; and I'll do it. 
 Leave the affair in my hands." 
 
 Need we pursue our story beyond t\n» 
 point ? We feel that we need not. A con- 
 summation, the reader will see, is at hand, 
 and the sooner we now arrive at it the- 
 better. 
 
 Captain Allentan procured Williamson'& 
 discharge — this was his first step — and near- 
 ly at the same time presented him with a. 
 remission of the debt due to his father — 
 paid his and his wife's passage to Scot- 
 land — got them reinstated at Woodlee — 
 stocked their farm — advanced money to 
 Williamson to discharge all his old debts — 
 and, in short, set him one more fairly 
 agoing in the world. Williamson prospered.. 
 He entered into na more speculations, but 
 stuck steadily to the business of his farm^ 
 and was contented with its slow but com- 
 paratively certain return. Captain Allen- 
 ton in time became Lord Allenton ; and 
 when he did so, and settled dovm a married 
 man acd sedate country gentleman afc 
 Merlin Castle, he was a frequent caller at 
 Woodlee, and on such occasions took much 
 pleasure in reminding Elleanor of their 
 first acquaintance on the field of Water- 
 loo, 
 
 ^*^*^ 
 
 THE IRISH REAPER, 
 
 Some years ago, I was proceeding from 
 Runcorn to Manchester, in one of the 
 passage -boats which ply upon the Duke 
 of Bridgewater's canal. There could not 
 be less than a hundred passengers, and 
 they were of as motley a description as 
 the imagination of man could conceive 
 even in a di-eam. The boats exactly re- 
 semble a long, low, fiat-roofed wooden 
 
 house ; but sufficiently lofty for a middle- 
 sized person to stand erect between the 
 floor and the roof, or rather the deck. 
 At one end sat about a dozen Primitive 
 Methodists, alternately reading passages 
 of Sci-ipture, or bm-sting forth, at the ex- 
 treme pitch of their voice, into a squall 
 of music, singing hymn upon hymn, till 
 my very ears ached, and the timbers of 
 
THE IRISH REAPER. 
 
 389 
 
 the boat might have started. Near them 
 sat a number of yoimg, ros^'-choeked 
 Welsh women, staring at the vocalists with 
 a look of wondeiing vacancy, that the 
 goats OQ tlieir own mountains could liot 
 have surpassed. There wei-o, also, manu- 
 iacturers' Avives and children returning 
 from a seven days' visit to Runcorn, for the 
 benefit of a salt water dip in the Mersey ; 
 and six or eight prim, sober, sleek, silent, 
 welldresscd Quakers ; with & more than 
 sprinkling of the boys of the Emerald Isle. 
 The loud laugh of one of them was ever 
 and anon heard above the shrill music of 
 the Ranters. He was about five feet 
 seven inches high, and exceedingly strong 
 and well-made. He wore an old great 
 c^at, of a yellowish blsuket color, a3ad a 
 hat, the crown of which had fallen in with 
 service^ and its brim "was equally turned 
 up before and behind, and on both sides. 
 His feet were thrust into a pair of brogues 
 of true Irish manufacture, which, with a 
 pair of coarse blue worsted stockings and 
 corduroy inexpressibles, completed his 
 outward man. He carried an apparently 
 empty sack under his arm, and was sur- 
 rounded by about a dozen of his country- 
 men, who seemed to regard him as an 
 oracle, heartilj^ echoing back his boisterous 
 laughter, and exclaiming — " Well done, 
 Mister ]M' Car thy ! — faith and it's you 
 that's your mother's own son, at iny rate," 
 
 O'Connell had sailed from Liverpool on 
 the previous day, and his countrymen were 
 discussing his political merits. 
 
 " Why, bad luck to ye," exclaimed our 
 hero with the greatcoat, in answer to one 
 who had held forth in praise of the coun- 
 sellor ; " and is it you, Mike Behan, that 
 says every man in Ireland should pay the 
 O'Connell rint t — but Pli tell you a bit of 
 a parable, as father O'Shee says, and a 
 parable, too, of my own natural mother's 
 making. ' Larry,' says she to me, ' Larry 
 McCarthy, don't be after planting those 
 big potaties for seed ; for they've a hole 
 m their heart a little Christian might slape 
 in.?'" 
 
 " You're no better thin a Sassenach, 
 Larry," interrupted the aforesaid Mick ; 
 '•' can't you speak your maneing like a 
 man, if you have any maneing at all, at 
 all." 
 
 This was like to have ended in an Irish 
 row in reality — though the majority evi- 
 dently sided with Mister Larry M'Carthy, 
 not because they agreed with him in opin- 
 ion, but because, as afterwards appeared, he 
 was their master or employer. The dis- 
 putants paused for a moment, and a loud 
 groan, as if from one in great bodily pain, 
 mingled with the wailings of a woman, was 
 heard from the farther corner of the boat. 
 Larry turned round, to use his own ex- 
 pression, " like a flash of lightning," and 
 the next moment he stood by the side of 
 the sufferer, who was a tall, bony-looking 
 figure ; but, save the skin that covered 
 them, there was little of his mortal man 
 but the bones left. It was only necessary 
 to look ofi his features, wasted as they 
 were, to tell that he, too, was an Irishman. 
 A young wifesat beside him, whose counte- 
 nance resembled beauty personifying sor- 
 row ; she had a child at her breast, and 
 two othera, the eldest not more than five 
 years of age, stood by her knee. Larry 
 looked U|?on the group, and his heart was 
 touched. 
 
 " Och? and what may be ailing ye, 
 count;yman .?" said he ; " sure and ye 
 wouldn't be after dying among friends, 
 would ye .?" 
 
 " Ohon ! and is it a friend that would 
 be asking after my own Patrick ."' replied 
 the poor wife ; " sure then, and he is ill, 
 and we're all ill togidder ; and it is six 
 blessed months since he earned the bridth 
 of tinpinny. Oh ! blackness on the day 
 that the rheumatis came on him" 
 
 " Sure now and is that all," interrupted 
 Larry ; '' and, belike, the doctors have 
 been chatiug you ; for, I tell you, honey, 
 and you, too, Patrick, those 'natomy chaps 
 know no more about the rheumatis then 
 holy Solomon knew about steam-boats. 
 But, belike, I'm the lad that disn't .know 
 
390 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 neither ; but, maybe, your cbating your- 
 silf if ye think so. Til tell yc what it is ; 
 the rheumatis is a wandering whid be- 
 tween the flesh and the bone ; and, more 
 than that, there is no way to cure it, bnt 
 to sqiiazo it out at the ends of the fingers 
 or tous." 
 
 " Oh ! my childcr's sorrow on it, thin !" 
 replied the suffering man's wife , " but, 
 more and above the rheumatis, Patrick 
 got his log broke last Fibruary" 
 
 " Ay, splintered, honey," added the 
 husband ; " and the doctors, bad luck be 
 wid them, can't make nothing on't ; and 
 I am now gone to the great Salford bone 
 doctor." 
 
 *' And, maybe, he won't be curing the 
 bit bone without the money," said Larry, 
 with an expression of sympathy. 
 
 The sufferer shook his head, and was 
 silent ; his wife burst into tears. 
 
 " I will work. 1 will beg, I will die for 
 my Patrick," she exclaimed, and pressed 
 the child closer to her breast. 
 
 " You had better be barring the dying, 
 honey," returned Larry ; " and wouldn't 
 a raffle, think ye, among friends, be more 
 gintale thin begging among strangers!" 
 
 " Ohon ! and is it friends you say .?" 
 replied she. 
 
 " Yes, sure, and it ia friends that I say," 
 answered Larry; "and a raffle is what no 
 gintleman need be ashamed on." 
 
 The boat at this moment stopped oppo- 
 site an inn at the side of the canal ; Larry 
 borrowed a quart measure from the skip- 
 per, and sprang ashore. In a few minutes 
 he returned with a quantity of rum, and, 
 handing it first to the wife, and then to her 
 lame husband, said — " Come, warm up 
 thy ould bones with a drop of the cratur." 
 He called the rest of his countrymen 
 around him, and handed the liquor to each. 
 When gathered together, there might be 
 about sixteen or eighteen of them in all. 
 
 " Arrah, now, and these are all my men," 
 said Mister Larry M'Carthy, with a look 
 of comical consequence, to his infirm 
 countryman ; " and where would you be 
 
 finding better ? We are gone up to a bit 
 of work in Lancashire ; for the Inglish are 
 no better than born childer at our work ;* 
 and," raising the liquor to his head, he 
 added, " here's the Holy Virgin be with 
 us, countryman, and better luck to your 
 bad leg ; and should it ever be mended at 
 all — though you may'nt be good for 
 much at hood-work iny more, you have 
 still a stout bone for a barrow — and you 
 won't be forgetting to ask for Larry 
 M'Carthy. And, now, boys," continued 
 he, turning to his workmen, " here is this 
 poor man, and, more than this, I'm saying, 
 our own lawful countryman, with the 
 rheumatis and a broken leg, and his wife, 
 too, as you see, and those three little 
 cherubiuis, all starving, to be sure, and he 
 going to the doctor's without a penny I 
 Sure you won't disgrace ould Ireland — 
 just look at the childer — and 1 say that a 
 raffle is the gintale way of doing the 
 thing." 
 
 So saying, he thrust his band into his 
 pocket, and pulled out a small canvas bag 
 well filled with silver, and tied round the 
 mouth with a strong cord. Pie took ofT 
 his indescribable brown hat ; he threw in 
 a piece or two of silver, and went round, 
 shaking it among his countrymen. Each 
 took out a bag similar to Larry's, and threw 
 his mite into the hat. He then, without 
 counting them, emptied its contents into 
 the lap of the poor woman ; and I should 
 think, from their appearance, they must 
 have amounted to thirty or forty shillings. 
 She burst into tears. The lame man 
 grasped his band, and endeavored to 
 thank him. 
 
 " Don't be after spakeing," said Larry ; 
 " did you think we warn't Christians.^" 
 
 Such was the Irish raffle. Larry in- 
 stantly resmned his jokes, his jests, and 
 his arguments ; but I could do nothing 
 during the rest of the passage, but think 
 
 » Larry and his countrymen were all navisalon 
 as they are called, or rather excavators, employed 
 iu digging cauals, railways, dix:ks, &c. 
 
THE IRISH REAPER. 
 
 391 
 
 of 'the good Samaritan, and adniii-e Mister 
 L^rry M 'Car thy. 
 
 In the September of 1834, 1 was wandcr- 
 ing by the side of a country cliurchj^ard, 
 situated aoar the banks of the Tync. The 
 sun had gone down, and the twilight was 
 falling grey upon the graves. 1 saw a 
 poor-looking man, whose garnicn'ts flutter- 
 ed in tatters with the evening breeze, and 
 who, by \n^ appearance, seeme-d to be an 
 Irish reaper, rise from among the tombs 
 He repeated!}'- drew the sleeve of his coat 
 across his eyes, and I could hear him 
 sobbing heavily, as thoiigh his heart would 
 burst. As we approached each other, 1 dis- 
 covered that he was my old canal-boat 
 companion, the then merry and kind-heart- 
 ed Larry M'Carthy ; but no more like the 
 Larry I had then seen him, than a funeral 
 to a bridal. 
 
 His frame was w^asted to a skeleton, 
 and hunger aad misery glistened in his 
 eyes together. 
 
 ^' Ha !" said I, accosting him, " is it 
 possible that sorrow can have laid its heavy 
 hand upon the light heart of Larry M'Car- 
 thy ?" 
 
 '" Sure," said he, drying away the tears 
 that run down his wan and want-worn 
 ■cheeks, " and it is true, and too true, and 
 heavy is the hand, sure enough ; but not 
 so heavy as it should be, or it would be 
 weighing me into that grave."" He point- 
 ed to the grave I had seen him leave, and 
 added, ''' But how do you know me, sir — 
 and who tould ye my name — as I don''t 
 know yours ? — for, sure, and mine is Larry 
 M''Carthy, as my father and mother, and 
 his rivircnce, wid my natural sponsors, to 
 boot, all, every one of thim, say and 
 affirm." 
 
 1 reminded him of the canal-boat and 
 the raffle, and inquired the cause of his 
 distress, and his idsit to the srave. 
 
 " Arrah, master,"" said he, ■" and you 
 touch a sore place when you ask me to tell 
 it. Perhaps you don't know — for how 
 should you — that, not long after the time 
 
 you spake of in the canal-boat, I came 
 down to what 3'-ou call the Borders here, 
 to a bit 'of navigating work t'bat was to be 
 a long job. I lodged wid a widow — b, da- 
 cent ould woman, that had a daughtea* they 
 called Mary — and, och ! you may be 
 j thinking that ever Mary had an equal, but 
 I it's wrong that ye are if ye think so. Her 
 I eyes were Hke drops of dew upon the 
 I shamrock ; and although she was not Irish 
 j but •S'cot'ch, it was all one ; for, ye know, 
 the Scotch and Irish are one man's childer. 
 But, at iny rate, she had a true Irish heart ; 
 and, but for the sae or the channel, as 
 they call it, she would have been Irish as 
 well as me. Lhe more I saw of Mary, I 
 loved her the more — better than a bird 
 loves the green tree. She loved nic, too ; 
 and we were married. The ould woman 
 died a few weeks before Mary presented 
 me wiih two little Larrys. 1 might have 
 called them both Larry ; for they were as 
 like each other as your two eyes, and both 
 of them as lilie me, too, as any two stars 
 in the blessed firmament are like each 
 other, where nobody can see the dilFerence. 
 " Mary made the best wife in Christen- 
 dom ; and, when our little cherubs began 
 to run about our knees, and to lisp and 
 spake to us, a thousand times have I clasp- 
 ed Mary to my breast, and blessed her as 
 though my heart would burst with joy. 
 ' Sure,' I used to say, ' what would my 
 own mother have said, had her ould eyes 
 been witness to the happiness of her son, 
 Larry M'Carthy ?">' 
 
 *' But often the thought came staleing 
 over me, that my happiness was too like a 
 drame to last long ; and sure and it wa^ a 
 drame, and a short one too. A cruel, 
 mortal fever came to the village, and who 
 should it seize upon but my little darlints. 
 It was hard to see them dying together, 
 and my Mary wept her bright eyes blind 
 over them. But bad luck was upon me. 
 The ' pothecary tould us as how our lovely 
 childer would die ; and, on the very day 
 that he said so, the wife that was dearer 
 to me than ould Ireland to Saint Patrick, 
 
392 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 lay down on the bed bcsicfe them — and, 
 och, s^ir ! before another sun looked in at 
 our window, a dying mother lay between 
 her dead ehilder. 1 wish that 1 might die 
 too; and, within I'hree days, 1 followed 
 my wife and my little ones together to the 
 same grave. It was this arm that lowered 
 them into the cold earth — into the narrow 
 iiousc — and, sure, it has been weak as a 
 child's since. INIy strength is buried in 
 their grave. I have wrought but little siuee ; 
 
 for I cannot. 1 have no home now ; and 
 1 take a light job anywhere when it comes 
 in my way. Every year, at reaping time, 
 I visit their grare, and bring with me a 
 bit of shamrock to place over it, and that 
 it may be a mark where to bury me,. 
 should 1 die here, as I hope I will." 
 
 Within ten days after this, I beheld the* 
 body of the once lively and generous- 
 hearted Larry M'Carthy consigned to the- 
 grave, by the side of his wife and children» 
 
 -^►^♦►^^ 
 
 THE STORY OF DUGALI> GLEN; 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OP DILSTON. 
 
 Several years have- now elapsed since I 
 resolved to spend a month of the sum- 
 mer's vacation in making a pigrimage to 
 some of the scenes famed in history or in 
 song, whfich impart an interest to the con- 
 fines of the si&ter kingdoms. With this 
 intention I set out, one morning early, 
 from my habitation on the banks of the 
 Tweed, with a heart as light as the breeze 
 that played around me. The third week 
 of my peregrinatioD-s found me in what is 
 called the Tiudale Ward of Northumber- 
 land. Having feasted my appetite for the 
 antique, by exploring the numerous relics 
 of the Romans with which that district 
 abounds, one afternoon I came unexpect- 
 edly upon the picturescjue ruins of the 
 castellated mansion of Dilston Hall — for- 
 merly tho residence of the unfortunate 
 James, Earl of Derweutwater, who, in 
 171G, was beheaded for al>etting the Earl 
 of Mar in his vain attempt at reinstating 
 the Stuarts upon the throne. These vene- 
 rable remains occupied the summit of a 
 steep and beautifully wooded bank, which 
 overhangs the romantic rivulet, or rather 
 
 brook, of DeviTs Water, near its conflu- 
 eoce with the Tyne. The sky, which, 
 during the earlier part of the day, ha(J 
 been clear and serene, became suddenly 
 now overcast with dark clouds, which 
 forthwith bcinin to discharge themselves iis 
 a heavy shower. To escape a ^' ducking,"' 
 I found myself compelled to seek shelter 
 in the interior of a gloomy vault, a few 
 yards distant from the ruins, which had 
 been used as a burial place by the ancient 
 Barons of Dilston Hall, but, as I ascer- 
 tained from the marks upon its pavement, 
 had been latterly converted into the igno- 
 ble purpose of a pen for sheep. Scarcely 
 had I entered, when the storm burst forth 
 furiously, and, in a few minutes, the brook, 
 which laved the base of the rock on whichs 
 the vault stood, came brawling down with 
 the noise and vehemence of a torrent. Na< 
 alternative was thus left me, but to amuse 
 myself, as best I might, in attempting to 
 decipher a few of the time-worn monu- 
 mental tablets that were imbedded in the 
 walls of this stombre mansion of the dead. 
 I had spent some time in tracing the 
 
STORY OF DUGALD GLEN. 
 
 393 
 
 scarcely legible characters that told of the 
 deeds and achievements of the ancient 
 barons of Dilston, whose mouldering ashes 
 crumbled bonoath my feet, and was pro- 
 ceeding to transfer to a scrap of paper the 
 inscription upon the most recent of these 
 monuments, erected by Anne, Countess 
 of Denventwater, to the memory of her 
 brave but unfortunate son, when the vault 
 became suddenly darkened. On turning 
 round to ascertain the cause of this, I 
 found it to be occasioned by an old shop- 
 herd, v.dio stood at its entrance, apparent- 
 ly a good deal astonished at jfinding me 
 seated in such a situation, I soon entered 
 into conversation with him, and discover- 
 ed him to be not only intelligent, but like- 
 wise disposed to be very communicative. 
 He told me that he was a native of Scot- 
 land ; but, for several years past, had 
 been employed in the capacity of shep- 
 herd to a farmer in that neighborhood. 
 The family of Derwentwater became the 
 subjecl of conversation ; and having talked 
 of the fate of the last of its earls, I was 
 led to speak of the subsequent insurrection 
 of 1745, whicli had for ever blasted the 
 hopes of the House of Stuart. Talking 
 of the battle of Preston, which, for a time, 
 had inspired the adherents of the Cheva- 
 lier w^itli expectations of success, the old 
 man's face brightened up, and, with con- 
 siderable pride, he told me that his father 
 had been one of those who fell fii2;htin2: in 
 the " gude cause " on that bloody field. 
 " Had you time, sir," said he, " I could 
 tell you something about that business 
 that, aiblins, you may ria ha'e heard afore ; 
 but it's a lang story, and, 1 dou])t, no jist 
 a proper ane to be tauld in siccan a eerie 
 place as this An' you^-e no feared for a 
 wet coat, you might e'en stap down the 
 burn to my bsiid, that's no muckle mair 
 than a stancsthraw frae this, an' there you 
 shall be made welcome to rest yoursel' till 
 sic time as the storm blaw by ; and I, the 
 meantime, wad be tellin' you the story o' 
 my faithcr and the Laird o' Glengorroch." 
 A minute's walk, or rather run, brought 
 
 us to the shepherd's hut, and another had 
 scarcely time to slide by befoi-e I was seat- 
 ed, hob-a-nob, with Dugald Glen (for that 
 was the name of my new acquaintance), 
 before a blazing fire, listening to a narra- 
 tion of the marvellous incidents, which, 
 on my return homo, I embodied in the fol- 
 lowing story, which is now submitted to 
 the readers of the Border Tales. 
 
 It was on a fine still evening in the au- 
 tumn of 1745, that the clansmen of Glen- 
 gorroch, with tlieir aged chieftain at their 
 head, marched from the Highland glen of 
 that name, to share the fortunes of Prince 
 Charles P^dward, who had reared his stan- 
 dard on the heath of Glenfinnan. Their 
 wives and children were collected in 
 groups on the sides of the Gorroch moun- 
 tain, in order to enjoy as long a view as 
 possible of the " tartaned warriors." The 
 anxious, though somewhat proud interest, 
 with which they gazed on their departing 
 forms, deepened in proportion as the dis- 
 tance between them was magnified ; and 
 when, at length, an abrupt winding of the 
 glen carried their kinsmen, one by one, 
 from their sight, a simultaneous shriek, or 
 rather yell, burst from the female multi- 
 tude. Then, having gazed for some time 
 on the particular object of their love or 
 affection, they hastily pressed their weep- 
 ing children to their bosoms, and slowly 
 began to move down the acclivity of the 
 mountain to their hamlet in the vale be- 
 low, to muse in silence on the strano^e 
 enterprise that was taking their relatives- 
 " awa frae the land o' the mountain and 
 heather;" wliile Lady Helen, the daugh- 
 ter of tlr.'ir chieftain, returned in sorrow 
 to the old castle or tower of Glengorro<5h, 
 which reared its high and somewhat di- 
 lapidated turrets on the summit of a pre- 
 cipitous cliff that proj.^cted from the 
 northern side of the mountain. 
 
 With the proceedings of Prince Char- 
 les, after his being joined by the Glengor- 
 roch and other disaffected clans, our read- 
 ers are too well acquainted to require any 
 farther information from us. They will 
 
S94 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 recollect that, on the evening prior to the 
 tattle of Preston, the royal army, under 
 the command of Sir John Cope, lay en- 
 •caraped on that wide and then barrea 
 plain which extends between the village of 
 Tranent and the sea ; whereas the insur- 
 gent forces occupied the gentle slope of a 
 bill a little to the northward of that vil- 
 lage — an extensive and intricate morass, 
 "which has now disappeared under the im- 
 provements of moder.R agriculture, stretch- 
 ing between them. Thus were the rival 
 armies situated on the wet and foggy night 
 •of the 20th September, 1745, awaiting the 
 approach of the dawn to commence the 
 •onset. The hardy mountaineer, aoeus- 
 tomed to deeds of slaughter and blood- 
 shed, lay wrapt in his tartan plaid on the 
 bare ground, in profound repose ; while 
 ■manj'' a less courageous Lowkndcr, who 
 had either joined in the enterprise in a fit 
 of enthusiasm, or from a spirit of retalia- 
 iiion engendered by wrongs received from 
 iihose in authority, heard the cry of the 
 sentinels as they changed guard, and view- 
 ed the watch fires blazing on the plain with 
 feoJings of a far from pleasing kind. 
 
 On that night, as the chieftain of Glem- 
 gorrech sat in his tent, after his brother 
 ofiicers had retired to their slumbers, me- 
 ditating on the probable issue of the mor- 
 row"'s eno-ao-ement, there entered the form 
 of an aged Highlander, accoutred in a full 
 suit of armor ; but his body was bowed 
 down with the load of years, and the sword 
 which hung unsheathed by his side was 
 reddened with g-ore, that flowed in a dark 
 purple stream from a wound in his side. 
 His face was unearthly pale, the features 
 being contracted into a convulsive grin, 
 rather, however, betokening a feeling of 
 acute pain than of displeasure. The spec- 
 tre (for such it was) glided toward the 
 •spot where the chieftain was sitting, and 
 then fixing his lustreless eyes upon him, 
 he pronounced, in a solemn sepulchral 
 tone — " Glengorroch, prepare; for thy 
 hour is coming ! Ere the morrow's sun 
 hath set, the last chieftain of Gleno^orroch 
 
 shall be no more !" And, as the voice 
 died away, the figure became gradually 
 more and more indistinct, tiil, at length, 
 it almost disappeared. At first, the chief- 
 tain had tried to speak, and ask the offi- 
 cer, whom he then conceived the appari- 
 tion to be, the cause of so uncxp'^cted a 
 visit, when suddenly the idea of his being 
 in the presence of Dhorach nan Dhu, the 
 mysterious being who was supposed to 
 preside over the destinies of his race, 
 flashed upon his mind, and rendered every 
 effort to speak for some time abortive, 
 though his mind remained little more af- 
 fected than might be attributed to surprise 
 at so strange a sight. During the vision, 
 he sat boldly gazing on the spectre, and 
 instead of appearing alarmed or daunted at 
 the appalling annunciation, a smile of sad- 
 ness played u^Don his aged features ; and, 
 on regaining his speech, just as the appa- 
 rition was gliding out of sight, he calmly 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Spectre ! phantom ! or whoever thou 
 art, who hast thus kindly come to warn 
 me of mj approaching doom, depart not, 
 I pray thee, till thou hast likewise foretold 
 to me what shall be the destiny of the heir- 
 ess of our house, that, when the fatal blow 
 shall fall on his head, Glengorroch may 
 die in peace." 
 
 While he spoke, the spectre entirely 
 vanished ; but, at the further end of the 
 apartment, the form of a lady, in tears and 
 in deep mourning, was seen approaching 
 a gloomy convent, at the portj,l of which 
 stood a train of nuns attired in the unos- 
 tentatious garb of the sisterhood. As the 
 figure of the lady entered the convent, the 
 tent resounded with the solemn tones of 
 the organ, which ceased on the novice and 
 the nuns disappearing, and the gates being 
 closed. Glenn-orroch sat for some time 
 with his eyes rivetted to the spot where 
 the vision had melted away, engaged in 
 deep thought. At length he gave utter- 
 ance to the painful emotions which over- 
 came him at the latter apparition. 
 
 " And is it even so .^ — are thus all my 
 
STORY OF DUGALD GLEN. 
 
 395 
 
 high fancies to be blasted for ever ? — and 
 is it to fare thus hard with the hist rem- 
 nant of Glengorroch ? Alas ! my poor 
 child ! how are all thy father's proud hopes 
 and wishes for thy happiness in a moment 
 departed, and the heart, which could have 
 smiled upon its own misfortunes, made to 
 weep tears of blood for thine !" 
 
 During the remainder of the night, he 
 continued to pace backward and forward, 
 his mind ens^rossed with the most melan- 
 choly reflections. The dawn at length 
 began to break, and they were interrupted 
 by the entrance of his old and faithful do- 
 me-stic, Dugald Glen, a Lowlander by 
 birth, but whose long servitude had caused 
 him to be considered by his master rather 
 in the light of a confidant than as an or- 
 dinary serving-man. He entered the tent 
 with a smile on his countenance, which 
 became suddenly dispelled as he observed 
 that of his master overcast with a look of 
 unusual sadness. Without paying much 
 attention to the old man, who had now 
 intruded himself into his presence, Glen- 
 gorroch continued his perambulations, 
 engaged in the same gloomy reverie as 
 previous to Dugald's appearance. By 
 tliis time, daylight had advanced so far as 
 to render the torch, which continued to 
 blaze on the floor of the apartment, alto- 
 gether superfluous. This quickly attract- 
 ed Dugald's notice, who remarked, as he 
 extinguished the blazing faggot, that it 
 was '' neither mair nor le-ss than sinnin' 
 ane's mercies to use baith day an' torch 
 light at the same time ;" and this he did 
 in a louder tone than usual, chiefly with a 
 view of rousing his master from his reve- 
 ries, that he might ascertain what had given 
 rise to the painful reflections, which, from 
 long experience of his habits, he readily 
 saw were passing in the chieftain's mind. 
 The latter, at the loud exclamation of Du- 
 gald, turned hastily round, and, speedily 
 assuming his wonted smile, said to the 
 venerable valet — " So, Dugald, you are 
 quickly afoot ; you, for one, seem deter- 
 mined not to be backward in the fight. 
 
 How goes the time, Dugald ? — is the 
 Prince astart yet ! — and how are our 
 English friends looking; this mornin.'x I" 
 
 " Please your honor," replied Dugald, 
 bowing respectfully, " the sun is just be- 
 ginning to keek out frae the clouds ower 
 Berwick Law ; an' as for the Prince, he's 
 been rinniu' frae ae tent to anither this 
 half hour, an', I doubt not, will bo wi' 
 your Grace i' the crack o' a nut shell ; 
 an' when I came ben, the Southrons were 
 putting out their fires, and seemed to be 
 in an unco flurry. But, i' the name o' 
 the Holy Virgin, what's makin' you look 
 sae pale an' fearsome : 1 declare your 
 cheeks are as white as a snaw-ba', or a 
 sliced turnip ; it canna be that your honor's 
 fear'd for the day's wark ; but, aiblins, 
 you may find yourseP ower weak to fight 
 at your time o' life, an' nae wonder .^" 
 
 " Fear hath ever been a strano-er to the 
 heart of our race, Dugald," rejoined the 
 chieftain, reassuming the thouo-htful look 
 which had been dispersed by the appear- 
 ance of his attendant ; " and at no period 
 during my long life did I feel myself more 
 able or willing to wield my sword manful- 
 ly, than to-day. But, if my face be, as 
 you say, paler than usual, it is owino" 
 neither to fear nor weakness ; other and 
 weightier causes are required to drive the 
 color from my face ; and, alas ! these have 
 been sent enough to curdle every drop of 
 blood in my veins ; but thou knowest 
 them not, Dugald, and it is better thou 
 shouldst not, for thine old eyes will may- 
 hap have closed in death ere the last event 
 come to pass." 
 
 " By the Holy St. Peter !" said the old 
 man, with a look of the most serious 
 alarm, " am I to be believe my ears, or 
 has your honor been dreamin' } My dear 
 maister, if you care ae straw for your puir 
 servant, tell him what it is that's makm'' 
 you speak in that fashion. Before I left 
 you last night, you were in the greatest 
 spirits, an' now you're lookin' as white as 
 a corp, an' talkin' in that fearsome man- 
 ner just when you're on the point o' being 
 
396 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 restored to a' your ancient honors and 
 dignities. O my dear maister, tell me if 
 ony danger is like to happen thee or thine, 
 an' auld Dugald Glen '11 no grudge the 
 best drap o' bluid in his body to keep 
 you frae skaith." And here the tears 
 ran down the old man's face as he fell to 
 the ground and grasped his master's 
 knees. 
 
 " Poor old man !" said the chieftain, a 
 tear at the same time glistening in his 
 eyes, ''•' last night I thought as thou dost 
 even now, that honor and power were 
 about once more to smile on our ill-star- 
 red house ; but the fates have otherwise 
 determined. However, my kind old man, 
 enouf^h hath been left from the wreck to 
 enable thee to spend the remainder of 
 thy days in peace and comfort ; take this, 
 Duo-aid " — holdim: out to the old man 
 his purse, at which however, he gazed 
 without offering to accept it — " this is all 
 I will be able to leave thee for thy long 
 and faithful services ; but I will speak to 
 the Prince in thy behalf, and he, 1 doubt 
 not, will not see our old servant want; 
 one thing,^^ added Glengorroch, hurriedly, 
 " one thing let me beseech thee to do, in 
 the event of evil betiding thy master — 
 give this ring to Helen, as a memorial 
 from her father." 
 
 " My honored maister !" exclaimed the 
 poor old man, after a great many ineffec- 
 tual efforts to speak, and in a voice quiver- 
 ing with emotion, " waes me, that my auld 
 cen should hae seen this day ! — auld Du- 
 gald Glen should hae been lang syne lyin' 
 wi' his forbears in Auchtcrmuchty kirk- 
 yard. O my puir maister ! But what 
 did the bogle say was to befa' Leddy 
 Helen .^" 
 
 '' Ask me not further, Dugald ; what I 
 have alluded to has been foretold for the 
 last time by the being who presides over 
 the destinies of our race. Take the 
 money, Dugald ; you will find it useful 
 when you are once more obliged to shift 
 for yourself; and keep this for Helen." 
 
 '^ my puir niaistcr ! an' is it so you 
 
 I think my affections are to be got and 
 
 broken off t Do you think that auld Du- 
 
 i gald Glen can live after his first and only 
 
 j maister has perished ? — No, no, my Lord ; 
 
 i the same hour that shall terminate the 
 
 I race of Glengorroch shall lay auld Dugald 
 
 i' the dust. I needna, therefore, the 
 
 money, my Lord, an' the ring you maun 
 
 consign to other hands to gie puir Leddy 
 
 Helen. O my puir maister ! waes me 1 
 
 should hae lived to see this day !" 
 
 *' Thou art wrong," said Glengorroch, 
 : struirixlins: to conceal his emotion. '' thou 
 art wrong, my kind old man ; thou mayest 
 yet live to see many a happy day, and it 
 were folly in thee to betake thyself to the 
 field, resolved to share the fate of thy un- 
 happy master, particularly when thou 
 couldst be so well employed in conveying 
 to poor Helen this last token of her father's 
 love." 
 
 Any further controversy on this distress- 
 ing subject was now arrested by a slight 
 tap on the door, at which almost instant- 
 ly. Prince Charles entered between two 
 Highlanders, who placed themselves by 
 his side. He wore a blue velvet bonnet, 
 surmounted by the famous " white cock- 
 ade," and a tartan coat with the star of 
 St. Andrew on his breast. A blue sash, 
 embroidered with gold, hung gracefully 
 over his shoulder, while at his side dangled 
 a massy silver-hilted broadsword. His 
 countenance was lightened up bv a smile ; 
 and immediately he began to discourse 
 with the chief respecting the approaching 
 contest. During this interview, the latter 
 seemed to have regained his former spirits, 
 smilinij and even laucrhins; at the humor- 
 ous remarks with which the Prince's con- 
 versation, as usual, abounded. Ere long 
 they sallied out together, joined the rest 
 of the officers, held a council of war, and 
 resolved to attack the enemy immediately. 
 The mist, hovering in dense clouds over 
 the intervening morass, prevented cither 
 army from distinctly observing the move- 
 ments of the other, so that, by the aid of 
 a person well acquainted with the ground, 
 
STORY OP DUGALD GLEN. 
 
 397 
 
 the troops of Prince Charles were enabled 
 to cross the marsh without observation, 
 and to draw themselves up in order of 
 battle. A scene of bustle and confusion 
 pervaded the royal army, when the terrific 
 yell, whereby the Highlanders commenced 
 the attack, too truly proved that the 
 hedge, which they fancied they saw before 
 them, gradually becoming more and more 
 conspicuous as the day approached, was 
 none other than the armed host of the en- 
 emy. Short but decisive was the conflict 
 that followed. The hardy Highlanders, 
 with the fury of a winter's torrent rushing 
 down their mountain glens, fiercely assault- 
 ed the troops of the foe, and, in five or 
 six minutes, routed and put them to 
 flight ; and, amid the groans of the dying 
 warriors, rose the joyful shout of " God 
 save King James — the Stuart for ever !" 
 After the battle, the field presented, as 
 might have been expected, a most melan- 
 choly and disgusting spectacle — strewed 
 with the mangled bodies of the slain who 
 had fallen under the tremendous broad- 
 sword. The few surviving retainers of 
 Glengorroch sought out from the lifeless 
 bodies of their clansmen, that of their 
 venerated master, which was pierced with 
 many a wound. During the engagement 
 he had fought bravely at the head of his 
 own undisciplined group of mountaineers. 
 The last chargje vras made. Glengorroch 
 rejoiced in the expectation of victory, and 
 the prophecy of Dhorach seemed unlikely 
 to be realized. And victory came — but 
 the chieftain was pierced with a bullet 
 which stretched him on the plain ; and on 
 the now cultured spot where he fell, a 
 stately hawthorn tree, that has braved the 
 storms of upwards of ninety winters, points 
 out to the passing traveller the place 
 where in peace he rests from his warfare ; 
 near which a solitary mound marks the 
 lowly sepulchre of his faithful domestic, 
 Dugald Glen, and the greater part of the 
 ill-fated clan of Glengorroch. 
 
 On the evening of that day whose morn 
 had proved so fatal to her parent, did the 
 
 fair Helen leave the tower of Glengorroch, 
 with the intention of proceeding to the 
 hamlet, to ascertain if any intelligence had 
 arrived of the proceedings of the Prince ; 
 but so occupied did her mind become with 
 forebodings relative to the success of the 
 enterprise whereon her father had embark- 
 ed his life and fortunes, that she proceed- 
 ed in a totally difi"erent direction, through 
 a wild and trackless ravine, utterly uncon- 
 scious, or, at any rate, heedless whither 
 she wandered. Over this rugged path 
 did she continue to move onwards, not- 
 withstanding the many obstacles which 
 impeded her progress, till her farther ad- 
 vancement was eventually stayed by her 
 arriving on the margin of the deep lake of 
 Gorroch, whose placid bosom. was then 
 illumined by the pale rays of the moon. 
 As she gazed on its tranquil waters, slum- 
 bering in all the beauty of an autumn's 
 eve, the anxious feelings which previously 
 harassed her mind became gradually sub- 
 dued. Regardless of the hour and the 
 solitude of the spot, she seated herself on 
 a fragment of rock that lay upon the mar- 
 gin of the lake, and continued, if not to 
 admire, at least to be soothed by the calm 
 scene before her. At length, however, 
 her attention was irresistibly distracted 
 from the subject that had given rise to 
 her moonlight excursion, on observing, at 
 about sixty or seventy yards from her, a 
 sudden burst of flame arise from a small 
 Island whereon mouldered the ruins of a 
 chapel, within whose vaults had been de- 
 posited, from time immemorial, the ashes 
 of the chieftains of Glengorroch. Utterly 
 
 at a loss to account for so strans-e a cir- 
 ri 
 
 cumstance, and possessed of a mind im- 
 pressed from her earliest childhood by 
 the wild legends and superstitions which 
 did then, as well as at the present day, 
 exert so powerful a sway over the feelings 
 of the Highlanders, it will not be wonder- 
 ed at that a sort of dread overcame her 
 at the sight. It increased as the moon 
 became once more obscured by a dense 
 mass of clouds ; the dark interval being 
 
398 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 rendered yet more dismal by the terrific 
 o-lare in which the whole of the trees upon 
 the Island were speedily enveloped. 
 Motionless she fiat, with her eyes fixed in 
 fearful gaze upon the towering conflagra- 
 tion, in which appeared to be fast con- 
 suming the spot that had ever been held 
 sacred by the natives of that wild region, 
 till the lake, and the hills in whose bosom 
 it reclined, became once more irradiated 
 by the more genial moonlight. Not to 
 dispel, indeed, the terror which had now 
 seized upon the maid of Glengorroch, did 
 fair Luna once more throw her gladsome 
 mantle over the heath-embrowned moun- 
 tains for no sooner had the clouds float- 
 ed from before her round disc, than the 
 pale Helen descried a form, apparently of 
 mortal make, gliding upon the surface of 
 the lake, and nearing the spot where she 
 sat. She had just time to observe that 
 neither boat nor oars were required to 
 carry this mysterious intruder on her 
 solitude on his way to the shore, and to 
 infer that none other than Dhorach nan 
 Dhu, of whom she had previously heard 
 much, but whom she had never before 
 seen, was approaching, before terror 
 overcame her and she swooned. On ar- 
 riving within a few yards of the damsel, 
 he halted ; and lookinG; lonsr and stead- 
 fastly on her pale features, his withered 
 countenance assumed a look of pity, as 
 he uttered to himself the followino; in 
 Gaelic : — 
 
 " And has it, at length, fallen upon 
 Dhorach nan Dhu to pronounce to the 
 fairest maiden of these mountains the fate 
 which has Ions: been hoverino; over her 
 father's race .' Now is my father's son 
 the most wretched of beings. Oh ! blame 
 me not, lady, for even now, methinks, 1 
 see au upbraiding look distort thy most 
 beautiful of countenances." 
 
 Thus far had his soliloquy proceeded, 
 when the object to w^houi it related, 
 probably startled by the loud tone of the 
 speaker, or supernaturally influenced, 
 raised her head from the position into 
 
 which it had fallen on the occurrence of 
 the syncope, and, strange as it may ap- 
 pear, now looked with comparative com- 
 posure upon the being whose very approach 
 had well nigh bereft her of existence. A 
 pause ensued, ascribable, probably, on 
 the part of the one, to a certain incapa- 
 bility of utterance which has been uni- 
 formly supposed to overcome mortals 
 when in the presence of beings of " more 
 than mortal mould," (and of the ethereal 
 essence of Dhorach nan Dhu, it may 
 readily be supposed Lady Helen did not 
 harbor the slightest doubt), and on the 
 part of the other, to an unwillingness to 
 communicate the painful intelligence 
 which devolved upon him, as the last seer 
 who presided over the expiring destinies 
 of Glengorroch. Turning, at length, half 
 round, and pointing to the flaming pile in 
 the midst of the lake, he continued — 
 " Lady of Gorroch, seest thou yonder 
 flame, in which is consuming the spot 
 where the ashes of thy ancestors repose .'' 
 Thy father, and the clan whom thou saw- 
 est march forth from these glens, shall 
 need no such resting-place ! They, and 
 he from whom thou art sprung, have found 
 a sepulchre on the battle-field of the Low- 
 lander, and there in peace shall the last 
 chieftain of Glengorroch rest from his 
 warfare ! The work of Dhorach nan Dhu 
 is now at a close ; and with yonder ex- 
 piring flame," continued he, still p>oiuting 
 ' to the island where the fire was now 
 nearly extinguished, " shall perish the last 
 seer of thy father's clan !" 
 
 Having thus spoken, he plunged, head- 
 foremost, into the lake ; and the rever- 
 beration of one solitary shriek among the 
 surrounding caverns and glens, rang the 
 death-knell of Dhorach nan Dhu. 
 
 How or when, after the above awful 
 meeting with Dorach nan Dhu, Lady 
 Helen reached the tower of Glengorroch, 
 the narrative of the shepherd left us unin- 
 formed. Certain it is., however, that 
 from that period her health and beauty 
 
THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 
 
 bcirnn to wane, notwithstanding; all the 
 cfTcu-ls of tho-se who lent their skill to ef- 
 fect a cure ; and prior to her entering a 
 foreign conTent, not many months after- 
 
 wards, such as were familiar with her, 
 traced in the incoherency of her discourse, 
 which always had reference to that fatal 
 meeting, a; lamentable failure in her mind. 
 
 ■^4^*-^ 
 
 THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH 
 
 A TALE- OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 
 
 " Word went east, and word went west, 
 
 And word is gone over the sea, 
 That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston. Heugh 
 
 Would ruin the north countrie. 
 
 "^ All folks believe wijhin the shirs 
 
 This story to be true, 
 And they all run to Spindleston 
 
 The cave and trough to viev/. 
 
 " This fact now Duncan Fi-azier,. 
 
 Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme. 
 Lest Bamboroughshire-raen should forget 
 
 Some part of it in lime."" — Ancient Ballad.^ 
 
 " Tell me, old man,'^ said a Northum- 
 brian chief to a Saxon bard, who claimed 
 his hospitality, " tell me a tale of the old- 
 en time— a legend of the race of Woden." 
 The bard bowed his head and began : 
 — Great was Ida, the flame-bearer, above 
 all the kings of the isles. His ships 
 covered the sea in shoals, and his war- 
 riors, that launched them on the deep, 
 were strcnsier than its wave-s. He built 
 the towers of Bamborough on the mighty 
 rock whose shadow darkens the waters. 
 He reared it as a habitation for his queen, 
 
 ♦ The popular Ballad of the Laidley (or loath- 
 ly) Wonn of Spindleston Heugh^ was com-posed 
 by Duncan Frazier, the Cheviot bard, more than 
 five hundred years ago, and has rendered the le- 
 gend familiar far beyond the Borders. The tradi- 
 tion had doubtless been commemorated by the an- 
 cient Saxon bards, when old Duncan turned it into 
 rhyme J and it is under this supposition that the 
 present tale is told, the narrator being understood 
 to be a wandering bard of the Saxon race. 
 
 and he called it by her name. * Where- 
 soever he went, strong places were con- 
 sumed, kings were overthrown and became 
 his servants, and nations became one. But 
 Ida, inf the midst of his conquests, fell in 
 battle, by the red sword of Owen, the 
 avenging Briton. Then followed six kings 
 wha reigned over Bernici*, from the 
 southern Tyne even to the Frith of Dun 
 Edin. But the durati^on of their sove- 
 reignty was as a summer cloud or mornino" 
 dew. Their reigns were as six spans from 
 an infanfs hand, and peaceful as an in- 
 fant's slumber. 
 
 But to them succeedexi Ethelfritb the 
 Fierce — the grandson of Ida — the descend- 
 ant of the immortal Woden. His voice, 
 when his ire was kindled, was like the 
 sound o-f deep thunder, and his- vengeance 
 
 * According to the venerable Bede, the name of 
 Ida's queen was Bidda, and the original name of 
 Bamborough, Biddaburgh. 
 
400 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 fleeter than the lightning. He overthrew 
 princevS as reeds, and he swept armies be- 
 fore him as stubble. His conquests ex- 
 tended from where clouds sleep on the 
 brow of Cheviot, to where the heights of 
 terrific Snowdon pierce heaven. Men 
 trembled at his name ; for he was as a 
 wolf in the fold, as an eagle amongst the 
 lesser birds of heaven. 
 
 Now, the wife of Ethelfrith's bosom 
 died ; «he departed to the place of spirits 
 — to the company of her fathers. She 
 left behind her a daughter, Agitha,* with 
 the tresses of the raven's wing ; and she 
 was beautiful as sunbeams sparkling from 
 morning dew amongst the flowers of spring. 
 Her eyes were bright as the falcon's, but 
 with their brightness was mingled the 
 meekness of the dove's. The breath of 
 sixteen summers had fanned her cheeks. 
 Her bosom was white as the snow that lay 
 in winter on the hills, and soft as the plum- 
 ao-e of the sea-fowl that soared over the 
 
 o 
 
 rocks of her lofty dwelling. 
 
 A hundred princes sighed fer the hand 
 of the bright-haired Agitha ; but their 
 tales of love had no music for her ear, and 
 they jarred upon her soul as the sounds of 
 a broken instrument. She bent her ear 
 only to listen to the song of affection from 
 the lips of the Chylde Wynde — even to 
 Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and 
 the unerring bow, who was her own kins- 
 man, the son of her father's brother. His 
 voice was to her as the music of water 
 brooks to the weary and fainting traveller 
 — dear as the shout of triumph to a con- 
 quering king. Great was the Chylde 
 Wynde amoisg the heroes of Bernicia. 
 He had honored the shield of his father. 
 He had rendered his sword terrible. 
 Where the battle raged fiercest, there was 
 his voice heard, there was his sword seen ; 
 war -horses and their riders fell before it 
 — it arrested the fury of the chariots of 
 ■war. Bards recorded his deeds in immor- 
 tal strains, and Agitha saiag them in secret. 
 
 * In the old ballad she is called Margaret. 
 
 Yet would not Ethelfrith listen to the 
 prayer of his kinsman, but his anger was 
 kindled against him. The fierce kinf^ 
 loved his daughter, but he loved domi- 
 nion more. It was dearer to him than the 
 light of heaven, than the face of the bless- 
 ed sun. He waded through blood as wa- 
 ter, even the blood of his victims, to set 
 his feet upon thrones. Ho said unto him- 
 self — " Agitha is beautiful — she is fairer 
 than her mother was. She is stately as a 
 pine, lifting its head above the sacred 
 oaks. She is lovely as the moon when it 
 blesseth the harvest fields. A king only 
 shall possess her hand, and give a king- 
 dom in exchange for it." 
 
 Thus spoke her father, the mighty 
 Ethelfrith, whose word was power, and 
 whose purpose was fixed as the everlasting 
 rocks on which the foundations of the 
 earth are built. He said, therefore, unto 
 the Chylde Wynde — " Strong art thou in 
 battle, son of my brother ; the mighty 
 bend before thy spear, and thy javelins 
 pierce through the shields of our enemies 
 As an eagle descendeth on its prey, so 
 rusheth my kinsman to the onset. But 
 thou hast no nation to serve thee— no 
 throne to offer for my daughter's hand. 
 Whoso calleth himself her husband, shall 
 for that title exchange the name of king, 
 and become tributary unto me — even as 
 my sword, before which thrones shake and 
 nations tremble, has caused others -to do 
 homage. Go, therefore, son of my bro- 
 ther, take with thee ships and warriors, 
 and seek thee a people to conquer. Go, 
 find a land to possess ; and when with thy 
 sword and with thy bow thou hast done 
 this, return ye to me, bringing a crown in 
 thy left hand, and in thy right will I place 
 the hand of Agitha with the bright hair, 
 whose eyes are as stars." 
 
 " O king !" answered the Chylde— 
 " thou who boldest the fate of priiici^s in 
 thy hands, and the shadow of whose scep- 
 tre stretohcth over many nations — the up- 
 liftino- of whose arm turneth the tide of 
 battle— swear unto me, by the spuit of 
 
THE LAIDLEY WORM OP SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 
 
 401 
 
 mighty Woden, that while I am doing that 
 which thou requirest, and ere I can return 
 to lay a cr<3wii at thy feet, swear that thou 
 will not bless another king for an offered 
 kingdom, with the hand of Agitha, in 
 whom my soul liveth !" 
 
 Then did the wrath of the king wax 
 terrible ; his eyes were as consuming 
 iires, even as the fire of heaven when it 
 darteth from the dark clouds of midnight. 
 His countenance was fierce as the sea, 
 when its waves boil and are lifted up with 
 the tempest. In his wrath he dashed his 
 heel upon the floor ; and the armor of con- 
 quered kings, the spoils of a hundred bat- 
 tles, rans; round the halls of Ida. 
 
 " Shall the blood of my brother," he 
 cried, " stain the floor of his father ? Boy ! 
 ask ye an oath from a king, the descend- 
 ant of Woden ? * Away ! do as I com- 
 mand thee, lest ye perish I" 
 
 Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw 
 from before the anger of the great king, 
 in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the 
 life even of his kindred was as a spider's 
 thread. He sought Agitha with the rain- 
 bow smile, where she sat with her maid- 
 ens, in the groves of Budle, ornamenting 
 a robe of skins for her father, the might}- 
 Ethelfrith. The sea sang its anthem of 
 power along the shore, and the caves of 
 the rocks resounded with the chorus of 
 the eternal hymn. The farthest branches 
 of the grove bent over the cliff that over- 
 hung the sounding sea. The birds of 
 heaven sang over her head, and before 
 her the sea-birds wheeled in myriads, 
 countless as the sand upon the shore, like 
 burnished clouds over the adjacent isles. 
 Their bright wings flashed in the sun, like 
 
 * It may be necessary to mention, that the ima- 
 ginary deities of the Saxons were named Woden, 
 Tuisco, Thor, Frea, and Seator. They also wor- 
 shipped the sun and moon. Woden was their 
 god of war; and from him Ida and his descend- 
 ants professed to spring. It is after these objects 
 of pagan worship, that we still name the days of 
 the week ; as Woden's day (Wednesday,) Thor's 
 day (Thursday,) Frae's day (Friday,) &;c., &c. 
 VOL. II. 63 
 
 the fitful fires that light the northern 
 heavens. 
 
 The warrior Chylde drew near to where 
 the princess sat. There was gloom and 
 sorrow on his brow. The echoes of the 
 grove answered to his sighs. Agitha heard 
 them. She beheld the cloud of anguish 
 that was before his countenance. The 
 robe of skins dropped from her hand. 
 Her eyes, that were as the morning light, 
 became dim. She arose and went forward 
 to meet him. 
 
 " Wherefore," she inquired, " does my 
 hero sigh, and why sits heaviness on the 
 brightness of his face .? Are not thou re- 
 nowned in sons; as the warrior of the 
 dauntless heart and the resistless sword.'* 
 Art not thou the envy of princes — the be- 
 loved of the people — the admired of the 
 daughters of kings ? And can sadness 
 dwell upon thy soul .'' Oh ! thou who 
 art as the plume of my father's warriors, 
 and as the pride of his host, if grief hath 
 entered into thy bosom, let it be buried 
 in mine." 
 
 Then thus replied the warrior Chylde : — 
 " Affitha — thou that art fairer, milder than 
 the light that plays around the brows of 
 the summer moon, and dearer to me than 
 a mother's milk to the lips of her babe — 
 it is for thee that my countenance is sad, 
 and my soul troubled. For thy father 
 has pierced my spirit with many arrows ; 
 yea, even with the poisoned arrows of a 
 deadly foe. He hath wrung my soul for 
 thee, Agitha. Thou didst give me thy 
 heart when the sacred moon rose over the 
 rocky Ferns and beheld us ; and while the 
 ministering spirits that dwell in its beams 
 descended as a shower of burning gold up- 
 on the sea, and, stretching to the shore, 
 heard us. We exchanged our vows be- 
 neath the light of the hallowed orb, while 
 the stars of heaven hid their faces before 
 it. Then, Agitha, while its beams glowed 
 on my father's sword, upon that sword I 
 swore to love thee. But our vows are 
 vain. Daughter of kings ! our love is 
 sorrow. Thy father hath vowed by the 
 
 I ^ 
 
402 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 miglity Woden, that thou shalt bo the 
 wife of a king, and that a kingdom shall 
 he the price of thy hand. Yet will I ga- 
 ther my warriors together. They num- 
 ber a thousand spears ; they have a thou- 
 sand bows. The charge of their spears is 
 as the rushing of the whirlwind. The 
 flight of their arrows hides the face of the 
 sun. Foes perish at their approach. 
 Victory goeth before their face. There- 
 fore, will I go forth into a far country. I 
 will make war upon a strange people, that 
 I may take the kingdom from their ruler, 
 and present his crown unto thy father for 
 the hand of my Agitha." 
 
 The maiden wept. Her head sank on 
 her bosom like a fair flower weighed down 
 with dew. Tears stood in the eyes of the 
 warrior. 
 
 '' Weep not, daughter of heroes ! " he 
 said ; " the tide of battle is in the hands of 
 Woden. He will not turn it against a de- 
 scendant of his race. I will return to 
 thee in triumph. I will throw a crown at 
 thy father's feet, and rush to the arms of 
 Agitha. Thou wilt greet me again with 
 thy smile of love — with thy voice that is 
 sweeter than the music of spring. Thy 
 heart, which is dearer than life, shall be 
 my kingdom ; and thy bosom, that is 
 whiter than the breast of the wild swan, 
 my throne. I will fly to thee as the hunt- 
 ed deer to its covert — as a bird to its nest 
 where its young await it." 
 
 Thus departed the warrior, and Agitha 
 returned to her maidens ; she sat down 
 amonofst them and mourned. 
 
 Gormack, the weird, a thane of the 
 Pictish race, had his dwelling near the 
 giddy cliffs where the young eagles scream 
 to the roar of the dark waters of the Forth. 
 He had a daughter whosa beauty was the 
 theme of all tongues. Her fame went 
 over the land like the sound of shells — yea 
 like the sound of shells when the wind is 
 hushed, and the moon is bright in the 
 heavens. Fair was the daughter of Gor- 
 mack as the lily thatgroweth by the brook. 
 Her hair was as the finest fleece when it 
 
 is purified. It fell down her back in 
 ringlets. It was bright as the golden 
 clouds that encircle the throne of the ri.s- 
 ing sun — as the golden clouds when they 
 are dipped in silver. Her father held 
 counsel with spirits of evil. They were 
 obedient to his will. He invoked them 
 to endue his daughter with more than 
 mortal beauty, that she might inflame the 
 soul of princes, and sit upon their throne. 
 Such was the tale of men. Her beauty 
 was the burden of the song of bards. In 
 their chorus to swell the praise of others, 
 they said that they were " lovely as the 
 fair daughter of Gormack." 
 
 The tale of her charms was heard by 
 Ethelfrith. It was heard by the fierce in 
 war — the impetuous in love — the victor 
 in battle — yea, even by Ethelfrith, king 
 of Bernicia. " I will see the fair daughter 
 of the thane," said the proud king, to 
 whose will even war and the mighty in 
 war did homage. Moreover, Gormack 
 the thane was his vassal. He had sworn 
 to his obedience. 
 
 The king went forth to the dwelling of 
 Gormack, among the cliffs. Ealdormen,* 
 comites, I and thanes, J attended him. 
 The weird thane came forth to meet him ; 
 he bowed low his head and made obei- 
 sance. 
 
 Ethelfrith beheld Bethoc the Beautiful ; 
 and the songs that he had heard in her 
 praise were as an idle tale, for her loveli- 
 ness exceeded the power of song. The 
 soul of the fierce kino; melted within him. 
 It was subdued by the sorcery of her 
 charms. 
 
 " Give me," said he unto her father — 
 and commandments ever fell from his lips 
 — " give me Bethoc to be my wife ; for 
 she is more lovely than the morning star. 
 She is fit for a warrior's bride ; she shall 
 be The Lady§ of Bernicia," 
 
 * Earls. t Companions. 
 
 t Thanes signified men high in power, of va- 
 rious degrees of rank. 
 
 § The Lady was the appellation given to a 
 , queen amongst the Anglo-Saxons. 
 
Tfc:lE LAiDLL:Y WORM OF SPfNDLESTON HEUGH. 
 
 403 
 
 Again the weird bowed his head. He 
 knelt upon his knee. Ho presented his 
 dauo-hter to the kino;. Then did Ethel- 
 frith take her by the hand. He led her 
 forth to his chariot of war, through the 
 midst of his ealdormen, his comites, and 
 his thanes, who were great in power and 
 resistless in war, and they made obeysance 
 to her as she passed through the midst of 
 them. They saluted her as their queen. 
 Her breast swelled with exultation. Pride 
 flashed from her eyes, as the sun bursting 
 from a cloud dazzleth the eye of the gazer. 
 The king gazed upon her beauty as a 
 dreamer on a fair vision. 
 
 Now, the beauty of Bcthoc was sin 
 made lovely. Her bosom was as a hill 
 where the vine and the cedar grew, and 
 where flowers shed forth perfume ; but 
 beneath which a volcano slept. To the 
 eye was beauty, beyond were desolation 
 and death. Pride, hatred, and envy, en- 
 circled her soul. She was sold unto evil, 
 even as her father was. The spirit of de- 
 struction, in answer to her father's prayer, 
 had formed her a beautiful destroyer. 
 Whatsoever was lovely that she looked 
 upon in envy, withered as though an east 
 wind passed over it — the destroying wind 
 which blighteth the hopes of the husband- 
 man. 
 
 At the going down of the sun, 'the king, 
 and his fair queen, Bethoc, with his mighty 
 men, drew near to the tower which ida 
 had built on the mountain-rock, and all 
 the people of the city came forth to meet 
 him, and to greet their queen. 
 
 The bards lifted up their voices ; they 
 styled her the fairest of women. 
 
 '* Fair is the wife of the king," replied 
 an aged thane, " but fairer is Agitha his 
 daughter ! Bethoc, the queen, is a bright 
 star, but Agitha is the star of the morning 
 — fairest of the heavens !" 
 
 Queen Bethoc heard the words of the 
 a<yed thane, and she hated Agitha because 
 of them. The spirit of evil spread his 
 darkness over her soul. He filled her 
 brea,st with the poison of asps, her eyes 
 
 with the venom of the adder that lures to 
 destruction. 
 
 At the entrance of the tower of kings, 
 stood Agitha, lovely as the spirits that 
 dwell among the stars, and give beauty 
 to the beings of earth. She knelt before 
 the queen. She offered her a daughter's 
 homage. 
 
 " Rise, beautiful one ! inspirer of 
 song !" said the queen ; " kneel not to 
 me, for I am but a star — thou art the star 
 of the morning. Hide not thy face from 
 before men. Let them serve and worship 
 thee." 
 
 Cold wore her words as water whicb 
 droppeth from the everlasting icicles in the 
 caves of the north. x\s is the mercy of the 
 tears of the crocodile, so was the kind- 
 ness of her looks. Envy and hatred 
 gleamed in her eyes, like lightnings round 
 the sides of a dark cloud. 
 
 The countenance of Agitha fell ; for she 
 knew that her father in his wrath was 
 fiercer than the wild boar of the forest 
 when at bay ; and she feared to reply to 
 the sneer of the wife in whom his eyes 
 delighted. 
 
 Queen Bethoc, the daughter of Gor- 
 mack, knew that men said she was less 
 beautiful than Agitha, the daughter of the 
 king. When they walked by the clear 
 fountains or the crystal brooks together, 
 the fountains and the brooks whispered to 
 her the words which men spoke — '' Agitha 
 is the most lovely." Therefore did the 
 queen hate Agitha with a great and deadly 
 hatred. As the sleuth-hound seeketh its 
 prey, so did she seek her destruction. As 
 the fowler lureth the bird into his net, so 
 did she lie in wait for her. Yet she feared 
 to destroy her openly, because that she 
 was afraid of the fierce anger of her hus- 
 band Ethelfrith, and his love for his 
 daughter was great. 
 
 Sleep fled from her eyes, and color for- 
 sook her cheeks, because of her envy of 
 ;the beauty of Agitha, and the hatred 
 I which she bore her. She spoke unto her 
 ' father Gormack, the weird thane, that he 
 
404 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 -1 
 
 would aid her with his sorceries against 
 her. Then did they practise their unclean 
 spells, and perform their dark incantations 
 to destroy her ; but their spells and incan- 
 tations prevailed not, for the spirit of 
 Woden protected Agitha. 
 
 Now, there resided at that time in a 
 dark cave, in the heugh which is called 
 Spindleston, an enchantress of great power, 
 named Elgiva — the worker of wonders. 
 Men said that she could weave ropes of 
 sand, and threads from the motes of the 
 sunbeamsr She could call down fire from 
 the clouds, and transform all things by 
 the waving of her magic wand. Around 
 her hung a loose robe, composed of the 
 skins of many beasts. Her feet and her 
 arms were bare, and they were painted 
 with strange figures. On her face, also, 
 was the likeness of the spirits that minis- 
 tered to her will. She was fearful to look 
 upon. Men fled at her approach. The 
 beasts of the field were scared by her 
 shadow. Round her head was wreathed 
 a crown of fantastic hemlock — round her 
 neck a corslet of deadly nightshade. On 
 her left arm coiled a living snake, and it 
 rested its head upon her bosom. In her 
 right hand she held a wand dipped in the 
 poison of all things venomous. Whatso- 
 ever it touched died.. Whatsoever it 
 waved over was transformed. No human 
 foot approached her cave — no mortal 
 dared. The warrior, who feared not a 
 hundred foes, quailed at the sight of El- 
 giva, the enchantress, the worker of won- 
 ders. Unclean reptiles crawled around 
 her cave — the asp, the loathsome toad, 
 and the hissing adder. Two owls sat in 
 the farthest corner of the cave, and their 
 eyes were as lamps in its darkness. They 
 sat upon skulls of the dead. A tame ra- 
 ven croaked in the midst of it. It was^ 
 told that the reptiles, the owls, and the 
 raven, were objects of her enchantment — 
 warriors, and the daughters of warriors, 
 transformed by the waving of her wand. 
 
 Now, when Bethoc could find no rest 
 because of the greatness of her hatred for 
 
 Agitha ; and, moreover, as she herself had 
 communed with impure spirits, she over- 
 came the terror which the name of Elaiva 
 spread. She sought her aid. In the 
 dead of night, when the moon had gone 
 to rest, yea, when clouds and darkness had -* 
 blotted out the stars that were left to . 
 watch in the heavens, she went forth from 
 the tower of kings. She stood before the 
 cave of the enchantress. She lifted up 
 her voice and cried — '' Elgiva — worker of 
 wonders ! the feared of mortals ! — come 
 forth!" 
 
 The owls clapped their wings and 
 screamed ; the ravens croaked, and the 
 adders hissed. From the darkn<?ss of her 
 cave the voice of the enchantress came- 
 forth — it came forth as a voice from the 
 grave, saying — " Who amongst the chil- 
 dren of mortals dareth to call upon the 
 name of Elgiva .' — or, what deed of sin 
 brino-eth thee hither .^" 
 
 "The queen," answered Bethoc, " the 
 wife of the mighty Ethelfrith, she calleth 
 thee, she invoketh thine aid. The strong- 
 est spirits obey thee — the spirits of the 
 earth, of the air, and of the sea. Then 
 help me, thou that art more powerful 
 than the kings of the earth, that art 
 stronger than the fate of the stars ; help 
 — rid me of mine enemy whom I hate^ 
 even of Agitha, the daughter of the king. 
 Make her as one of the poisoned worm^ 
 that crawl within thy cave. Or, if thou 
 wilt not do this thing to serve me, when 
 my right hand hath shed her blood, turn 
 from me the fierce wrath of her father the 
 king." 
 
 Aicain the voke of the enchantress'came 
 forth from the cave, saj-ing — '* In seven 
 days come unto me again — bring with thee 
 the Princess Agitha ; and Elgiva, the 
 enchantress, will do towards her as BethpCy 
 the dauo-hter of the weird thane, hath re- 
 quested." 
 
 Thus did the queen, while Ethelfrith, 
 her lord, was making war against a strange 
 king in a far country. 
 
 Darkness lay heavy on the hills, it con- 
 
THE LAID LEY WORM OP SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 
 
 405 
 
 ceaiod the objects on the plains. Tke 
 seven days, of which the enchantress had 
 spoken, were expired. 
 
 " Maiden," said the qaeen unto Agitha, 
 " rise and follow nie." 
 
 Agitha obeyed ; for the fear and the 
 commandment of her father were upon her. 
 Two servants, men of the Pictish race, 
 also followed the queen. She went to- 
 wards the cave of the enchantress. Agitha 
 would have slirunk back, but the queen 
 grasped her band. The swords of the 
 men of the Pictish race waved over her. 
 They dragged her forward. They stood 
 before tbe cave of tbe potent Elgiva. 
 
 " Elgiva I worker of wonders!" ex- 
 claimed the queen; ^' Bethoc, thy servant, 
 is come. The victim also is here — Ao-i- 
 tha, the morning- star. By thy power, 
 which is sfcroniz;er than th.e lightnino- and 
 invisible as the wind, render loathsome 
 her beauty ; yea, make her as a vile 
 worm which crawleth on the ground, with 
 venom in its mouth." 
 
 Again was heard the deep voice of the 
 enchantress, mino-led with the croakino; of 
 the raven, and the screeching of the ovvls, 
 as she rushed from her cave, crying — " It 
 shall be as thou hast said." 
 
 Terror had entered the soul of the fair 
 Agitha — it had brought a sleep over her 
 senses. The enchantress grasped her 
 hand. She threw her arm around her. 
 
 " Away, acciiirsed V she exclaimed unto 
 Bethoc, the queen ; " fly ! lest the power 
 of the enchantment fall upon thee also. 
 Fly ! lest it overtake thee as darkness 
 overtaketh the benighted traveller. Fly ! 
 ere the wand of the worker of wonders 
 is uplifted, and destruction come upon 
 thee." 
 
 The followers of Bethoc quaked with 
 dismay. They turned with her and fled 
 to the tower of Ida. Of their outcroins: 
 and their incoming none knew. 
 
 The maidens of Bernicia wept when the 
 loss of Agitha was known. " Beauty," 
 said they, " hath perished. Agitha, whose 
 face was as the face of heaven when its 
 
 glories appear — as the face of the earth 
 when its flowers give forth their fragrance 
 — Agitha is not !'' And because she was 
 not, the people mourned. Queen Bethoc 
 alone rejoiced, and was silent. 
 
 Dismay and wonder spread over the 
 land — f\jr a tale was told of a serpent- 
 worm, fearful in magiiitude and of mon- 
 strous form, which was seen at Spindleston, 
 by the cave of Elgiva — the worker of 
 wonders — the woman of power. 
 
 The people trembled. They said of the 
 monster — " It is Agitha, the beloved ! — 
 the daughter of our king, of conquering 
 Efhelfrith. Elgiva, the daughter of de- 
 struction, "who communeth with the spirits 
 of the air, and defeateth armies by the 
 waving of her wand, hath done this. She 
 hath cast her enchantments over Agitha, 
 the fairest of women — the meekest amon^ 
 the daughter of princes." 
 
 The bards raised songs of lamentation 
 for her fate. " Surely," said they, 
 " when the Chylde Wynde cometh, his 
 sword, which maketh the brave to fall and 
 bringeth down the mighty, will break the 
 enchantment." And the burden of the 
 songs was — " Return, O valiant Chylde, 
 conqueror of nations — thou who makest 
 kings captives, return ! Free the en- 
 chanted ! Deliver the beautiful !" 
 
 Now, the people of the land where the 
 Chylde and his warriors landed, were 
 stricken with terror at their approach. 
 They fled before them, as sheep fly upon 
 the hills when the howl of the hungry 
 wolf is heard. He overthrew their kino-, 
 he took possession of his kingdom. He 
 took his crown, and he brouo-ht it to 
 Ethelfrith, whose ambition was boundless 
 as the sea. He brought it as the price of 
 Agitha's hand. 
 
 It was morn. The sun rose with his 
 robes of glory o'er the sea. Bethoc, the 
 dausfhter of Gormack the weird, stood 
 upon the turrets of Ida's tower. She was 
 performing incantations to the foui' winds 
 of heaven. She called upon them to lift 
 up the sea on their invisible wings, to raise 
 
405 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 it<^ waves as mountains, and whelm the 
 Bliips upon its bosom. But the winds 
 obeyed not hrr voice, and the sea was 
 still. In the bay of J3ucllc lay the vessels 
 of the Chyldc Wyndo, and the weapons of 
 his warriors flashed in the sunbeams and 
 upon the sea. Therefore was the spirit 
 of Queen Bcthoc troubled. It was 
 troubled lest the enchantment should be 
 broken — Agitha delivered from the spell, 
 and her wronQ;s aveno;ed. 
 
 As a great wave rolleth in majesty to 
 the shore, so advanced the warrior ships 
 of Chylde Wynde, the subduer of heroes. 
 The people came forth to meet hun with a 
 shout of joy. " He is come," they cried ; 
 " the favored of the stars, the Chylde of 
 the sharp sword, is come to deliver Agitha 
 the beautiful, to break the spell of her 
 enchantment." 
 
 He heard the dark tale. His bosom 
 heaved. He rent the robe that covered 
 him. His giicf was as the howling of the 
 winter wind, in a deep glen b':'tween great 
 mountains. He threw himself upon the 
 earth and wept. 
 
 But again the spirit of Woden came 
 upon him. It burned within his bosom as 
 a fierce flame. He started to his feet. 
 To his lips he pressed the sword of his 
 father. He vowed to break the enchant- 
 ment that entombed his betrothed. 
 
 He rushed towards the cave of Elgiva, 
 the worker of wonders. His warriors 
 feared to follow him. The people stood 
 back in dismay. For by the waving of 
 Elgiva's wand she turned the swords of 
 warriors upon themselves ; she caused 
 them to melt in their hands. 
 
 At the mouth of the cave stood the en- 
 chantress. By her side lay the serpent- 
 worm. 
 
 " Daughter of wickedness !" shouted 
 the Chylde, " break thy accursed spell; 
 restore the fliir form of my Agitha, else 
 thy blood shall dissolve the charm." 
 
 " Hearken, O Chylde," cried the en- 
 chantress ; " thou subduer of kings, thou 
 vanquisher of the strong — sharp is thy 
 
 sword, but against me it hath no power. 
 Would it pierce the breast that suckled 
 thee ? — the breast of her that bore thee .'" 
 
 IVom the hand of the warrior dropped 
 his uplifted sword. 
 
 " Mother !" he exclaimed. He fell on 
 his knees before her. 
 
 " Yea, thy mother," answered the en- 
 chantress ; " who, when her warrior hnsr 
 band fell, fled to the desert, to the cave, 
 and to the forest, for protection — even for 
 protection from the love, and from the 
 wrath of Ethelfrith the fierce, the brother 
 of thy warrior father, who.se eyes were as 
 the eagle's, and his arm great of strength. 
 Uncouth is the habit, wild is the figure, 
 and idle the art of thy mother. Broken 
 is her wand which the vnlgar feared. 
 That mine eyes might behold my son, this 
 cave became my abode. Superstition 
 walled it round with fire." 
 
 " And Agitha .^" gasped the warrior. 
 
 " Behold !" answered she, *' the loathly 
 worm at the feet of thy mother." 
 
 The skins of fish of the deep sea were 
 sewed together with cords — they "were 
 fashioned into the form of a great serpent. 
 
 " Come forth, my daughter I'' cried the 
 enchantress. Agitha sprang from her dis- 
 guise of skins. She sank upon his breast. 
 
 The people beheld her from afar. Their 
 shout of joy rang across the sea. It was 
 echoed among the hills. A scream rose 
 from the tower of Ida. From the highest 
 turret Bethoc the queen had sprung. In 
 pieces was her body scattered at the foot 
 of the great cliff. They were gathered to- 
 gether — they were buried in the cave of 
 Elgiva. From her grave crawled an un- 
 clean beast, and it crawleth around it for 
 ever. 
 
 Ethelfrith died in battle. Woden shut 
 his eyes and saw him not, and he fell. 
 And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker 
 of wonders, was hailed as Rowcna, the 
 mother of Wynde, the subduer of priuces ; 
 yea, even as Chylde Wynde, the beloved, 
 and the lord of Agitha the Beautiful. 
 
 Such was the tale of the Saxon bard. 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS. 407 
 
 THE HEEMIT OF THE HILLS. 
 
 *' Intruder, tliou slialt hear my tale," the solitary said ; 
 While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played ; 
 The thunder-clouds our carpet were — we gazed upon the storm, 
 Which swept along the mountain sides, in many a fearful form. 
 
 I sat beside the lonely man, on Cheviot's cloudless height ; 
 Above our heads wns glory, but beneath more glorious night ; 
 For the sun was shining over us, but lightninfrs flashed below, 
 Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable wo. 
 
 " I love, in such a place as this," the desolate began, 
 *' To gaze upon the tempests wild that sop 'rate me from man ; — 
 To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world — 
 View myself as by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled. 
 
 " My heart was avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling — 
 
 Perish such hearts ! — vile dens of crime ! man's selfishness concealing ; 
 
 For self! damned self's creation's lord ! — man's idol and bis god ! 
 Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast ofi", worthless load. 
 
 ^' Some say there's wildness in my eyes, and others deem me crazed, 
 They, trembling, turn and shun my path — for which let Heaven be praised ! 
 They say my words are blasphemy — they marvel at my fate. 
 When 'tis my happiness to know, they pity not, but — hate. 
 
 " My father fell from peace and wealth the day that I was born — 
 My mother died, and he became his fellow-gamblers' scorn ; 
 I know not where he lived or died — I never heard his name — 
 An orphan in a workhouse — I was thought a child of shame. 
 
 " ^QmQ friend by blood had lodged me there, and bought my keeper too, 
 Who pledged his oath he would conceal what of my tale he knew. 
 Death came to him ; he called on me the secret to unfold ; 
 But died while he was utterino; the little I have told. 
 
 " My soul was proud, nor brooked restraint — was proud, and I was young ; 
 And with an eager joyanc}'-, I heard his faltering tongue 
 Proclaim me not of beggars born ; yea, as he speaking died, 
 I — greedy — mad to know the rest- — stood cursing by his side. 
 
 " 1 looked upon the homely garb that told my dwelling-place — 
 It hung upon me heavily — a token of disgrace ! 
 I fled the house — 1 went to sea — Wiis by a wretch impressed, 
 The stamp of whose brutality is printed on my brea^st. 
 
 ^' Like vilest slave he fettered me, my flesh the irons tore — 
 Scourged, mocked, and worse than buried me upon a lifeless shore 
 Where human foot had never trode — upon a barren rock. 
 Whose caves ne'er echoed to a sound, save billows as they broke. 
 
408 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " 'Twas midnight — biit the morning came. I looked upon the sea, 
 And a melancholy wilderness its waters were to me ; 
 The heavens were Mack as yonder cloud that rolls beneath over feet^ 
 While neither land nor living thing my eager eyes could meet. 
 
 " I naked sat upon the rock ; — I trembled — strove to pray ; — 
 Thrice did I see a distant sail, and thrice they bore away. 
 My brain with hunger maddening, as the steed the battle braves,. 
 Headlong I plun.ged from the bare rock and buflfeted the waves. 
 
 " Methougiit I saw a vessel near, and bitter were my screams ; 
 But they died within me echoless as voices in our dreams ; 
 For the winds were howling round me, and the suffocating gusk 
 Of briny horrors rio^ted, the cry of death to crusk. 
 
 " My senses fled. I lifelessly upon the ocean slept ; 
 And when to consciousness I woke, a form before me wept ; 
 Her face was beautiful as light \ — but by her side there stood 
 A group, whose savage glances were more dismal than the flood. 
 
 " They stood around ezultingly ; — they snatched me from the wave — 
 Stole me from death — to torture me, to sell me as a slave. 
 She who stood o'er me weeping was a partner of my chains. 
 We were sold, and separation bled my heart with d-eeper pains. 
 
 " I knew not what her birth had been, but loved her with- a love 
 
 Which nor our tyrant's cruelty nor mockery could move. 
 
 I saw her offered to a Moor — another purchased me^ — 
 
 But, heavens ! my arms once fetterless, ere midnight I was free f 
 
 *' Memory, with ea-ger eye, had marked her master's hated door — 
 I grasped a sabre — reached the house, and slew th' opposing Moor, 
 I bore her rapidly away ;— a boat was on the beach — 
 We put to sea— saw morning dawn 'yond our pursuer's reach,. 
 
 " I gazed upon her silently — I saw her sink to sleep, 
 
 As darkness gathered aver us upon the cheerless deep ; — 
 
 I saw her ia her slumber start — unconsciously she spoke — 
 
 death ! — she called upon his name who left me en the rock I 
 
 " Then ! there was madness in my breast and fury in my brain — 
 She neyer beard that name from me — yet uttered it again ! 
 
 1 started forth and grasped her hand — " Ar* we pursued !" she cried — 
 I trembled in my agony, and speechless o'er her sighed. 
 
 " I ventured not to speak of love in such an awful hour, 
 For hunger glistened in our eyes, and grated to devour 
 The very rags that covered us ! — My pangs I cannot tell, 
 But in that little hour I felts the eternity of hell ! 
 
 " For the transport of its tortures did in that hour surround 
 Two beings on the bosom of a shoreless ocean found ; 
 As we gazed upon each other, with a dismal longing look, 
 A^d jealousy, but not from love, our tortured bosoms shook. 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS. 409 
 
 " I need but add that we were saved, and by a vessel borne 
 Ao-ain toward our native land, to be asunder torn. 
 The maiden of my love was rich — was rich — and I was poor — 
 A soulless menial shut on me her wealthy guardian's door. 
 
 " She knew it not, nor would I tell — tell ! by the host of heaven, 
 My tongue became the sepulchre of sound ! — my heart was rivcn„ 
 I fled society and hope ; the prison of my mind 
 A world of inexpressible and guilty thoughts confined. 
 
 " She was not wed — my hope returned ; ambition fired my soul, 
 Sweeping round me like a fury ; while the beacon and the goal 
 Of desire ever turbulent and sleepless, was to have 
 The hand that mine had rescued from the fetters of a slave. 
 
 " I was an outcast on the earth, but braved ray hapless lot ; 
 And while I groaned impatiently, weak mortals heard it not. 
 A host of drear, unholy dreams did round my pillow haunt ; 
 While my days spent in loneliness, were darkened o'er with want., 
 
 " At length blind fortune favored me — my breast to joy awoke ; 
 And then he who had left me on the isolated rock, 
 1 met within a distant land ; nor need I farther tell, 
 But, that we met as equals there, and my antag'nist fell. 
 
 " Awhile I brooded on his death ; and gloomily it brought 
 A desolateness round me, stamping guilt on ever}^ thought. 
 I trembling found how bloodily my vengeance was appeased, 
 At what vile price my bosom was o^ Jealousy releasod. 
 
 " For still the breathing of his name by her I lov'd, had rung, 
 In remembrance, like the latest sound that falleth from the tongue 
 Of those best loved and cherished, when upon the bed of death 
 They bequeathe to us their injuries to visit in our wrath. 
 
 " But soon these griefs evanished, like a passing summer storm, 
 And a gush of hope like sunshine flashed around me, to deform 
 The image of repentance, while the daikness of remorse 
 Retieated from its presence with a blacker with'ring curse. 
 
 " I hurried home in eagerness ; — the leaden moments fled ; — - 
 My burning tale of love was told — was told, and we were wexJ.. 
 A tumult of delightfulness had rapt my soul in flame, 
 But on that day — my wedding day — a mourning letter came. 
 
 " Joy died^n ev'ry countenance — she, trembling, broke the seal — 
 Screamed — ghmced on me ! and lifeless fell, unable to reveal . 
 The horrid tale of death that told her new-made husband's guilt — 
 " The hand which she that day had wed — her brother's blood had spilt. 
 
 " That brother in his mother's right another na:ne did boar — 
 'Twas him I slew ; — all shrank from me in horror and in fear ; — 
 They seized mo in ray bridal dress — ray bride still senseless lay — 
 1 spoke not wlule they pinioned me and hurried me away. 
 
410 
 
 TALES OF THE BONDERS. 
 
 " They lodged me in a criminal cell, bj iron gratings barred, 
 And there ?he third day heavily a funeral bell I heard. 
 A sable crowd my prison passed— they gazed on it with gloom — 
 It was my bride — luy beautiM, they followed to the tomb ! 
 
 " I was acquitted— but what more had I with life to do ? — 
 I cursed my fate — my heart — the world— and from its creatures flew. 
 Intruder, thou hast heard my tale of wretchedness and guilt — 
 Go, mingle with a viler world, and tell it if thou wilt." 
 
 THE HEROINE 
 
 After it became known that the wily Sir 
 Robert Carey had hurried away from the 
 deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce 
 to the delicrhted monarch of Scotland his 
 succession to the crown of England, a 
 great many English noblemen and gen- 
 tlemen came to Scotland on much the 
 -same errand that brings so many of them 
 at this day, viz. to hunt ; the game, in the 
 'one case, being place and favor, and in 
 the other, blackcock and grouse. Among 
 the rest, there was one Sir Willoughby 
 Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in Devon- 
 shire, a knight of gay and chivalric man- 
 ners, exceliently set off by an exterior on 
 which nature and art had expended their 
 best favors, but exhibiting, at same time, 
 in his total want of true honor and mental 
 acquirements, that tendency to a fair dis- 
 tribution, which nature, in all her depart- 
 ments, delights in displaying — suggesting, 
 as it did to an ancient philosopher, that 
 the pulchrum asad the utile are dealt out 
 in equal portions under a whimsical law 
 against their combination. 
 
 Having arrived, with his gay suite of 
 servants and splendid equipage, at the 
 palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was 
 informed that there were no apartments 
 close to the pala<3e which could be given 
 
 to him for his accommodation, in conse- 
 quence of the great influx of noble visitors 
 who had come from all parts of Scotland 
 and England to testify their allegiance, 
 and express their satisfaction, whether 
 real or assumed, on the occasion of King 
 James' succession. Sir Willoughby, there- 
 fore, took up his abode in a house in the 
 Canongate, which was pulled down more 
 than a hundred years ago — at that time 
 known by the name of the House of Gor- 
 don, in consequence, it is supposed, of 
 having at one time been occupied by the 
 ducal family of that name. 
 
 The house which Sir Willoughby thus 
 took possession of was situated on the 
 south side of the street, and nearly oppo- 
 site to the close called Big Loch-end Close, 
 which possessed at that time a very differ- 
 ent appearance frjom what it does at pre- 
 sent ; for the double row of low Flemish- 
 looking huts which lined the narrow entry, 
 have given place to modern buildings, 
 which do not look half so well as their 
 more humble predecessors. 
 
 la one of these little huts, there lived, 
 at that time — unconscious, doubtless, that 
 their names would thus become of histori- 
 cal interest centuries after they were ga- 
 thered to their fathers — a man called 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 411 
 
 Adam Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both 
 of some importance in the small sphere of 
 their own little gossiping world ; but, if 
 these humble individuals had been all that 
 their lowly mansion had contained, the 
 chronicler would scarcely have stooped to 
 notice either it or its inhabitants. There 
 was a third inmate in that house — an or- 
 phan girl, called Margaret Williamson ; a 
 young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about 
 seventeen years of age, of startling and 
 bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, 
 kindness, and meekness of disposition, that 
 endeared her to thousands. Producing 
 that kind of interest and sensation in her 
 own limited circle, which is so often found 
 to be the effect of the mysterious power of 
 beauty, though allied to poverty, which, 
 indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret 
 seemed as unconscious of the mairic influ- 
 ence of her charms, as she was of the sin- 
 gular fate that awaited her. She had been 
 heard of where she was not seen ; and, 
 innocent and harmless as she was, she had 
 not been passed unheeded by the " wise 
 women" of her day, who, in spite of fire 
 and King James' wrath, provided her, ac- 
 cording to their love or their spite, with a 
 prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. 
 As already hinted, Margaret was repre- 
 sented as being an orphan, brought up by 
 the gratuitous kindness of Adam Hunter 
 and his wife — though there were not want- 
 ing some who thought that her parentage 
 was not of the equivocal kind that was 
 represented. 
 
 Scotland was not, at that time, so far 
 behind in the love and praciice of gossip- 
 ing, as that there should be any want of 
 the usual kind and number of remarks on 
 the new-comers to the house of Gordon ; 
 and the family of Adam Hunter were 
 not behind their neighbors in their cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 " He's a braw knight that wha has come 
 to the House o' Gordon," said Janet 
 Hunter, one night when they were setting 
 round the fire. 
 
 " Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he 
 
 is," inquired Adam, " attour the mere 
 title an' form o' his knighthood ?" 
 
 " 1 ken naething about him," replied 
 Janet, " save that his name is Sir Wil- 
 loughby Somerset, and that he has a great 
 number o' servitors, wham he treats like 
 princes. They sr-.y he is gallant and weel- 
 favored ; and Elspet Craig, the wise 
 woman o' the Watergate, says, in her 
 fashion o' speech, that he is a rock whereon 
 the happiness, and peace o' mind, and 
 honor o' mony a bonny maiden may per- 
 ish like the silly boats that trust to the 
 smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no 
 cheated, Peggy Williamson can tell mair 
 about the knight than a' the ' wise women' 
 frae the Watergate to St. Mary's." 
 
 " An' if she can," said Adam, " it may 
 be waur for her than if she were as deep 
 learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries 
 o' that art whereby she works sae meikle 
 mischief to her faes, and may, pcradven- 
 ture, bring upon her head the vengeance 
 of the law. I houp better things o' 
 Peggy." 
 
 " I ken naething aboot the Knight o' 
 the White Feather,'"' said Margaret, with 
 a deep sigh ; " and wherefore should I ? — 
 he's far abune my degree." 
 
 '' But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, 
 " that he wears a white feather, my bonny 
 bird — and feathered creatures are flichtie, 
 especially when they are far faae their ain 
 countrie. Even our ain robin, wha con- 
 descends to come and eat our crumbs, 
 when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in 
 summer ; and, mair than a' that, he's a 
 bird o' prey, and doesna hesitate, when he 
 has a gude opportunity, to soil his bonny 
 red breast wi' the blood o' his compa- 
 nions." 
 
 It was apparent that both Adam Hunter 
 and Janet were suspicious of Margaret's 
 limited knowledge of the knight ; and they 
 had good reason to be so ; for Janet had 
 been told that, one night, when Margaret 
 had said she was going to meet a person of 
 the name of Simon Frazer — a tradesman 
 who had been making honorable proposals 
 
41- 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 t ) Ikt, alono; with nianj others who were 
 proud to be called her suitors — she had 
 been saen walkin2 with a gentleman wrap- 
 ped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to 
 be .Sir VVilloughby, in tlic glen of St. Ar- 
 thur's Seat, call-id the Hunter's Bog. On 
 another occasion, she had been followed 
 by wSimon Fraz-T to a trysting place, 
 known by the name of the Hunter's Rest 
 — a large boulder of basalt lying on the 
 side of the bog, and reiuarkalle to geolo- 
 giMits by its unaccountable position. On 
 this stone Margaret had sat till the moon 
 had concealed her horns behind the top of 
 St. Arthur's and the glen had gradually 
 become enveloped in the shade of the hill. 
 Simon Frazer took advantage of the gloom, 
 and concealed himself near to the spot 
 where Margaret sat ; and, amidst the si 
 lence which reigned in this secluded place, 
 he could distinctly hear the sighs of the 
 maiden, as the hope of seeing the person 
 she had come to meet became fainter and 
 fainter. 
 
 '' Wae's my puir deluded heart !" she 
 said, in a desponding and tremulous voice ; 
 " what is it that drives me, like a charmed 
 bird or a dementit thing, into the power o' 
 this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings 
 o' Elspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam 
 Hunter, and, what's abune a', the fear- 
 some visions o' my ain wild dreams ? Can 
 it be that I, wha hae seen, and may still 
 see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' 
 my ain country supplicating my fiivors as 
 if their condition here and in anither 
 wa;ld depended on a blink o' these worth- 
 less een, sit here, even noo, at the Hun- 
 ter's Rest, a mile frae my ain hamo, and 
 when naething but spirits are in the glen, 
 to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha 
 speaks a strange language, and maks love 
 in a strange fashion .' But it is even sae. 
 My heart is nae langer my ain. He has 
 ta'cn it into his ain keepino:, and he may, 
 in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as 
 he may crush the bonny blue bells that 
 flower there i' the glon." 
 
 At the tcrminatioii of I\Iar£!:arct's sim- 
 
 ple soliloquy, the sound of footsteps was 
 heard, and there soon followed the greet- 
 ing of lovers. Margaret's spiiits soon 
 revived, and, having taken Sir Willough- 
 by's arm, she said, playfully, as she looked 
 up into his face — " The faithless moon 
 has been truer this nicht than ye hae been ; 
 for she left the tap o' the hill half an hour 
 syne, and ye are only here noo."*' 
 
 " Upbraid me not, my fair Margaret," 
 answered Sir Willoughby ; '* for I was 
 scared at the Friar's Path by some person 
 who seemed inclined to follow me, and I 
 was obliged to change my road ; but thou 
 knowest that love is fed by hindrances, and 
 its course is none of the straightest." 
 
 " i didna think,'' answered the simple 
 maiden, " that true love stood in need o' 
 onything else in this warld, than the com- 
 pany and kindness o' the twa lovers to ane 
 anither " 
 
 " By my feather, Margaret, that is a 
 true maiden's speech ! But 1 do not think 
 that St. Arthur, who must surely be the 
 lover's saint, will thank us for an argu- 
 ment, instead of a love token, on such a 
 beautiful night as this. Observe these 
 gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like 
 streaks of silver on the tops of the crags, 
 investing the darkness of this glen with a 
 mystery in which love delights, and thou 
 wilt forget thy argument, iu the sweets of 
 our accustomed dalliance." 
 
 " That is a licht aith. Sir Willoughby, 
 that ye hae sworn," answered the maiden ; 
 '• but every land, as the sang says, has its 
 ain laugh, and it may also hae its ain aith ; 
 and 1 may weal forgic ye that, for the 
 bonn}' words ye hae novr spoken. Foreign 
 lands hae finer words than puir Scotland ; 
 but dinna think that 1 cauna enjoy the 
 beauty o' these silvery rocks and that 
 mirky glen, because my silly h.>art can 
 find nae utterance to its feelings, but by 
 its ain unmeanins; thrabs." 
 
 " And that is nature's best and most 
 beautiful language, m}- sweet bird," said 
 Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding 
 maiden ; " nor would 1 give one throb of 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 413 
 
 thy fair bosom for all tlie eloquence of 
 poetry." 
 
 Holding such conversation, the lovers 
 passed deeper into the shades of the hill, 
 and disappeared ; but the death-like silence 
 of the place, discovered, to the disappoint- 
 ment of Simon Frazer, many sighs and 
 protestations which otherwise would have 
 been sacred to the happy pair. 
 
 Many such meetings had Sir Willough- 
 by and Margaret. Their walks became 
 more frequent, and of longer duration ; 
 and it was often a late hour before Mar- 
 garet returned to her home. It could not 
 be that such a change in the habits of the 
 girl could escape the keen eye of public 
 curiosity, and far less the suspicious guar- 
 dianship of Adam Hunter. Wide spread 
 and generally known as was the beauty of 
 the maiden, so, in proportion, was the 
 voice of scandal heard over the town, 
 whispering the strange tidings, that Peggy 
 Williamson had been seduced by the great 
 knight who lived in the House of Gor- 
 don. 
 
 The circumstance, indeed, very soon 
 became apparent, from the condition of 
 the unhappy girl, who could no longer 
 conceal her pregnancy. She was, in con- 
 sequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, 
 and interrogated whether she had received 
 any promise of marriage, or any pledge 
 whereon she could found any expectation 
 or hope that the knight's intentions 
 towards her were of an honorable nature. 
 On this subject, no satisfaction could be 
 got from Margaret, who persisted in a 
 dogged silence, whenever any question 
 was put to her, tending to implicate, in 
 any way, the man who, to all appearance, 
 had ruined her. But chance brought to 
 light what jMargaret had been so anxious 
 to conceal ; for one evening, Janet Hunter 
 discovered in Margaret's sleeping apart- 
 ment a small scented paper, curiously 
 folded up, which she instantly carried to 
 her husband. Adam took the paper to a 
 learned clerk, in Blackfriars' Hospital — 
 (for few persons, at that day, could either 
 
 write, or read writing)— who read it to 
 him ; and he was surprised to find that it 
 contained a promise, on the faith of a 
 knight, that Sir Willoughby Somerset 
 would make, when time and circumstance 
 afforded opportunity, Margaret W^illiam- 
 son his wedded wife. The paper was 
 again returned to the place from which it 
 was taken. 
 
 This paper, combined with J^.Iargaret's 
 pregnancy, having satisfied Adam Hunter 
 of the truth of the general report and his 
 own suspicions, he lost no time in waiting 
 upon the knight. Being a man of a hasty 
 and even furious temper, he taxed Sir 
 Willoughby in unmeasured terms, with 
 the seduction of his ward, and demanded, 
 with a stern determination, satisfaction to 
 the maiden and to himself. Touched to 
 the quick, and wounded in his pride by 
 the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, 
 Sir Willoughby lost in turn his temper, 
 and, seizing a baton which lay near him, 
 he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow 
 on the head, and, with the aid of his ser- 
 vants, kicked him out of the house. One 
 of Sir Willoughby's servants, who aided 
 in this ejection and outrage, was Richard 
 Forster ; the person who, it was supposed, 
 first procured a meeting between his 
 master and Margaret. He was possessed 
 of his master's secrets, in this and many 
 other dishonorable amours ; and, thou-r^-h 
 he now, by his master's ordars, assisted in 
 the expulsion of Adam Hunter, he hated 
 him in his heart, in consequence of a blow 
 which he had some time before received 
 from him, on which occasion he had 
 threatened to report his master's practices 
 to Sir Robert Carey, who would not have 
 failed to communicate them to Kino- 
 James, whereby Sir Willoughby's status 
 at Court would have been lost, and his 
 ruin accomplished. The knight wished 
 therefore, to get quit of Richard ; but to 
 part with him living was to part with his 
 secrets ; and he had accordingly made up 
 his mind to get him disposed of in such a 
 manner as that he could tell no tales. An 
 
414 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 opportunity for this occurred soouer than 
 might have been expected. 
 
 Stung with an ungovernable rage, 
 Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold 
 of the House of Gordon, threw himself on 
 his knees, and vowed to Almightv God 
 that he would take the first opportunity 
 that fortune afforded him of depriving his 
 enemy of life. This dreadful purpose, 
 thus definitively and impiously settled, 
 calmed Adam Hunter's rage ; for he felt, 
 as if by anticipation, that he was revenged. 
 He walked deliberately home, and, with- 
 out hinting anything of his deadly purpose 
 to his wife, S3nt for Simon Frazer, Mar- 
 garet's rejected suitor, communicated to 
 him his intention, and requested his co- 
 operation. Frazer entered into the 
 scheme with all the spirit of his clan, and 
 all the rage of a disappointed lover 
 towards his successful rival. They re- 
 solved to fix the manner of accomplishing 
 their purpose that evening, after Janet 
 and Marfjaret had retired to rest. 
 
 In the evening;, when Adam Hunter and 
 Simon Frazer met, Margaret had just 
 retired to bed, but not to sleep. Her 
 mind was occupied with the thoughts of 
 her situation. She had now become sus- 
 picious of Sir Willoughby's intentions. 
 In her late interviews with him, he had 
 been distant and shy ; and he had even 
 refused, on one occasion, to meet her, 
 alleging, as an excuse, that he was engag- 
 ed to 20 to an evening: entertainment, to 
 which it was ascertained he never went. 
 He had, besides, endeavored to get back 
 from her the letter, which, in an unguard- 
 ed moment, when intoxicated with love 
 and wine, he had given to her. All these 
 circumstances satisfied the unhappy maid- 
 en that she was about to become, or rather 
 had already become, the dupe of a heart- 
 less villain. She now considered herself 
 standing on the very verge of ruin ; about 
 to become, as Elspet Craig had foreboded, 
 the victim of a passion insidiously intro- 
 duced into her young heart ; and left to 
 the scorn of an unfeeling world, or the 
 
 unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruit- 
 ful philanthropy. These reflections were 
 passing through her mind, when she heard 
 Simon Frazer come into the house ; for 
 her bed was so situated that she could 
 hear everything that occurred in the ad- 
 joining apartment, She soon ascertained 
 the object of this late meeting of the two 
 friends ; and, with feelings that shook her 
 whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on 
 the following evening, when Sir Willough- 
 by was expected to go to an evening en- 
 tertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter 
 should gain the staircase window of 
 Widow Hutchinson, fire upon his enemy, 
 and, upon seeing him fall, make his escape, 
 along with his friend, by a back passage 
 that led to the North Back of the Canon- 
 gate. This resolved upon, the two friends 
 parted. 
 
 The agitation which the knowledge of 
 this fierce and bloody purpose produced 
 in the mind of Margaret, was proportion- 
 ed to the love which she still bore to her 
 seducer, and to the gentle character of 
 the maiden, who shrank from the very 
 thought of violence. Her nerves had, 
 moreover, been severely affected by the 
 train of sorrowful thoughts which, at the 
 moment when she heard the fatal resolu- 
 tion, were passing through her mind. But 
 a new feeling soon arose. She was now 
 called upon to act, and the urgency of the 
 case requiring the most prompt communi- 
 cation to Sir Vv^illouo'hbv, assuag-ed, in 
 some degree, her nervous excitement, by 
 forcing; her ideas into a train calculated to 
 the contrivance of some method of meet- 
 ing; him in the morning;. 
 
 At daybreak, ^Margaret rose from her 
 sleepless pillow, wrapt herself up in her 
 plaid, and went and secreted herself be- 
 hind a large tree, which stood in the 
 garden at the back of the House of Gor- 
 don, from which she could observe the 
 bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It- 
 was a cold raw morning ; the rain was 
 pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant 
 thunder shook the heavens. In this situa- 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 415- 
 
 tion, Margaret sat for two hours, wet, 
 wearied, and disconsolate. Her attention 
 was, in some degree, arrested by a new 
 equipage that stood in the court-yard, ap- 
 parently newly arrived from a distance ; 
 and she concluded that Sir Willoughby 
 had visitors — a prediction which she haid 
 good reason to verify. Her eye sought 
 continually the casement of the knight's 
 sleeping apartment, which was at last 
 opened, and to her surprise and ^mortifica- 
 tion, she saw standing behind the dressing 
 glass, the form of a gay and fashionable 
 lady, with Sir Willoughby standing behind 
 her — his head leaning on her left shoulder, 
 and his right hand patting, with playful 
 fondness, her cheek, and arranging her 
 ringlets with the sportive gaiety and coBt- 
 Sdence of a professed libertine. 
 
 Overcome by this apparition, which so 
 completely justified Margaret's suspicions 
 of the character of her lover, and wearied 
 and wasted as she was by the scene of the 
 previous night, the fevered vigil which 
 succeeded, and the cold and wet position 
 she had so long occupied on this morning, 
 she became faint ; and, being unable longer 
 to stand, leant herself, in a stooping pos- 
 ture, against the stem of the tree under 
 which she stood. Sir Willouighby now 
 entered the garden ; he had observed her 
 from the window, and came with marked 
 displeasure in his countenance. 
 
 " Why this early visit, young maiden .^" 
 he said, with a querulous iorte of voice, 
 and without making any effort to assist 
 her to rise. 
 
 " 1 dinna come here this morning, Sir 
 Willoughby Somerset," replied Margaret, 
 with the warmth of offended pride, and 
 standing up, nerved by her feelings, which 
 were roused as far as the gentleness of her 
 nature permitted — " I dinna come here this 
 morning on my ain account, though may- 
 be I hae as meikle reason to do that as the 
 braw leddie wha sits, even noo, in your 
 sleeping chamber, and whose braw hair ye 
 were pleased, in a fashion of merriment, 
 to put in disorder. Oh, that it had pleas- 
 
 ed heaven that ye had deranged nae mair 
 o' me than my worthless locks, I might 
 this mornino; hae been the blithe, thocht- 
 fess, and innocent Peggy Williamson, that 
 I was when my stray wits left me to my- 
 seP at the Hunter's Rest I Na, Sir Wil- 
 loughby, I dinna crome to tell ye o' your 
 broken troth, and my lost love, and the 
 ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad gladly hae 
 laid down her worthless life to save yours.- 
 These things, — though, by om* memories, 
 whilk are but as the quick sand to the 
 finger-mairks of the drooning sailor, they 
 may ance be forgotten — are recorded, 
 doubtless, whar they shall remain, ay, a» 
 the graving on adamant. Yet, thoixgh 
 these things, in this world at least, concern 
 only me, wha am, doubtless, o' sma con- 
 cernment to ony living mortal ; and though 
 they may cost me 7ny life whilk may be o' 
 sma avail, they are o' less importance to 
 me at this time that what I cam' to- tell 
 ye, being naething less than how to save 
 your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to 
 slay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. 
 Tak' anither road than the Canongate ; 
 or, what is better, stay at hame, and save 
 a life that is dearer to Peggy Williamson' 
 than her ain. — Fareweel, fareweel !" And; 
 before Sir Willoughby could reply, she 
 had left him, waving her hand to him as 
 she went. But, on looking baek, as she 
 opened the door of the garden, she saw 
 the same lady — whom she afterwards as- 
 eertained to be Lady Arabella Winford, a 
 person of bad repute, with whom Sir 
 Willoughby had resided for some time on 
 ih.e continent — enter the garden, and 
 greet him in a manner very different frort* 
 the modest custom of Scotland at that day. 
 After the departure of Margaret, Sir 
 Willoughby, instead of being in asy de- 
 gi-ee affected by gratitude for the preser- 
 vation of his life, or by compassion for the 
 kind maiden who had been instrumental in 
 doing him that service, projected, from her 
 information, a scheme marked by coward- 
 ice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid 
 of his servant, Richard Forster, and put 
 
416 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 an end to him and tlie sscrets with which 
 he had entrusted him, at the same moment. 
 He resolved, and true to the character he 
 bore — a combination of cruelty and fri- 
 volity — he resolved, amidst the blandish- 
 ments of meretricious affection, and the 
 •imbecile badinage and persiflage of a 
 strumpefs conversation, to send Richard 
 down the Canon<rate in the evenins;, wrap- 
 ped up in his cloak, and wearing his hat 
 and white plume, by which he had become 
 so remarkable. The project was execut- 
 ed as it was planned ; and the deed was 
 done with which Edinburgh, and indeed 
 Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard 
 Forster, wearing the cloak and plumed hat 
 of his master, was shot dead in the Can- 
 ongate, opposite to the house of Widow 
 Hutchison, by the unerring hand of Adam 
 Hunter, who seeing his supposed victim 
 fall, fled in the direction of the Calton 
 Hill leaving the gun, with which he had 
 done the deed, lying in a hedge, which at 
 that time skirted a part of the north back 
 of the Canongate. 
 
 A hue and cry was soon raised against 
 Adam Hunter, who, about a week after 
 the crime was committed, was laid hold of 
 by the ofl[icers of the law, and lodged in 
 prison. Sufiicient evidence having, in the 
 epinion of the crown authorities, been pro- 
 cured for a conviction, the unfortunate 
 man, was m due course of time, brou<Tht 
 to trial before the Hioh Court of Justici- 
 ary. The court met on the 15th day of 
 November ; and Adam Hunter, guarded 
 on each side by members of the City 
 Guard, sat, with the stoical indifierence 
 which marked his character, to hear the 
 evidence to be brought forward against him, 
 and, in all probability, to receive sentence 
 of death. The august appearance of the 
 judges, sitting in their black robes, the 
 venerable and even dignified aspect of the 
 ■unfortunate culprit, and the strange and 
 mysterious crime with which he stood 
 charged, joined with the fate of the well- 
 known Canongate beauty, with which that 
 crime was unaccountably associated, pro- 
 
 duced a sensation in the J-usticiary Court 
 which had not been experienced for many 
 years. The deepest silence prevailed 
 when the indictment was read ; and the 
 Lord Justice-Clerk, having put the ordi- 
 nary question to the pannel of guilty or 
 not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firm- 
 ness, and calmly and respectfully answer- 
 ed — " Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder 
 of Richard Forster. ' ' The trial proceeded, 
 and the crown advocate spoke : — 
 
 " My Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, 
 this is a case of murder, whereto, so far as 
 I can see, no defence or plea of justifica- 
 tion, or even palliation, can be set up by 
 the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that 
 which is indeed an aggravation, that he 
 did intend to kill one man against whom 
 he entertained malice prepense^ and slew 
 another against whom he had no cause of 
 quarrel. On the day preceding the com- 
 mission of this murder, the prisoner at the 
 bar was, in consequence of his outrageous 
 and brutal conduct in the House of Gor- 
 don, occupied at present by Sir Willoughby 
 Somerset kicked t^y that honorable knight 
 out of doors, whereby being fiercely en- 
 raged, he impiously vowed a desperate re- 
 venge, the which, though he had taken it 
 instanter and killed his enemy, percitus 
 rixa, would still, by the just laws of this 
 land, which make no distinction between 
 forethought, felony, and chaiid mella^ have 
 been murder, and sufficient to subject the 
 prisoner to the penal consequences of that 
 heinous crime. But, my Lords, the prisoner 
 cannot even plead homicidiuvi in rixa ; for 
 he went home and meditated upon his 
 crime ; settled deliberately the modus 
 trucidandi in cool blood — or, as we say, 
 sanguine frigida ; and on the following 
 day, watched, sanguinem sitiens^ for liis 
 victim ; and more like a blood-hound, 
 cajiis vestigator^ than a human being, de- 
 prived him, whom he supposed to be his 
 victim, of life. But revenge is known to 
 be blind, and instead of his enemy, the 
 prisoner murdered, by shooting him 
 through the body, a person who was not 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 417 
 
 in any degree guilty of having offended 
 him ; hut who was going about his private 
 affairs, as any of us might have been, un- 
 conscious of meriting, standing in no fear 
 of receiving, and knowing no reason for 
 expecting such an awful fate as that 
 which awaited him. This, I say, is an 
 aiTfrravation of the crime of murder, in so 
 far as, while in the ordinary case there 
 may, in man's estim.ation, be some pallia- 
 tion in consequence of the infliction of an 
 injury — in this there can be none." 
 
 The witnesses for the crown were then 
 called. The death of Richard Forstor, 
 caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. 
 It was also proved, that the gun found in 
 the hed2;e was Adam Hunter's. The 
 quarrel with Sir Willoughby Somerset was 
 next established, as also the fact that the 
 
 deceased wore, on that 
 
 the 
 
 dress of his master. The macer of court 
 then called out the name o the next wit- 
 ness, which was that of Margaret William- 
 son ; but before she had time to make her 
 appearance, Adam Hunter rose from his 
 seat and addressed the court in the follow- 
 ing terms : — ■ 
 
 " My Lords, it doesna appear to me, 
 that in the eve o' God, or even in that o' 
 man, it can abide the twitch o' natural 
 reason that a puir bairn should, in ignor- 
 ance o' the relation whilk she bears to 
 hira against whom she is to swear, be en- 
 trapped by cunning men o' the law, to gie 
 evidence against the life o' him wha gave 
 her life. The veins o' Margaret William- 
 son are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart 
 mayna beat in unison wi' the ordinary 
 feelings o' a bairn to a father ; for she, 
 puir thing, has nae knowledge that Adam 
 Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound 
 to love and respect, and therefore she may 
 this day, in that unseemly ignorance whilk 
 I and my wife Janet have imposed upon 
 her, say what at some future time she may 
 repent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna 
 recall to her the parent she has slain. I 
 canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye 
 can consider it unreasonable in a par- 
 
 voL. ir. 6* 
 
 ent — a character whilk maybe some o' 
 yoursels bear, and, if ye do, oh, think, 
 what it is to be doom.ed by your ain 
 bairn ! — that this puir lassie be tauld, be- 
 fore she be examined, that she is bane o' 
 the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him 
 whom she is about to arraign o' murder." 
 
 As soon as Adam Hunter had finished his 
 speech, which, delivered with great empha- 
 sis, produced a great sensation in all the 
 persons present, who never understood that 
 Margaret W^illiamson was in any way relat- 
 ed to him, the crown counsel stood up and 
 said — 
 
 " My Lords, this is an ingenious device, 
 on the part of the prisoner at the bar, to 
 deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, 
 who is about to be broug-ht forward as a 
 witness, has been held out to the world as 
 an orphan — a fact that may be testified by 
 hundreds of persons, and is, indeed, ad- 
 mitted by the culprit himself. The story 
 now fabricated by the prisoner is, indeed, 
 improbable — as what father would deny 
 his child ? I cannot, therefore, consent to 
 allow any communication to be made to 
 the witness, whereby the fountain of evi- 
 dence may be contaminated by prejudice, 
 and truth itself sacrificed to the false feel- 
 ings and hysterical emotions of a relation- 
 ship which, in my opinion, has no founda- 
 tion in fact." 
 
 The judges, having disbelieved the 
 statement of Adam Hunter, refused to 
 comply with his request. Margaret Wil- 
 liamson was, accordingly, brought in and 
 placed in the witnesses' box. Upon being 
 examined, she gave, in evidence, the sub- 
 stance of the conversation which took 
 place between Adam Hunter and Simon 
 Frazer on that night when the death of 
 Sir Willoughby Somerset was resolved 
 upon. She was then asked whether she had, 
 between that period and the death of 
 Richard Forster, any communication with 
 Sir Willoughby ; but to this question she 
 refused to give any answer, or rather she,, 
 by the effect of her simplicity — in this in- 
 stance, however, made subservient to 
 
418 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 something approacbing to cunning — so 
 completely baffled the men of law that 
 they were obliged to give up the question 
 in despair. 
 
 On the part of Adam Hunter, an at- 
 tempt was mads to prove an alibi ; but 
 that having failed, the jury, on the charge 
 of the judge, who considered the crime 
 proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and 
 Adam Hunter received sentence of death. 
 The speech which Adam Hunter had 
 made on the occasion of his trial, as al- 
 ready said, excited much sensation ; and 
 the truth of the fact stated by him was 
 subjected to investigation. It was found 
 to be perfectly true, though no notice is 
 taken of it in the books of adjournal. 
 Margaret Williamson was the illegitimate 
 child of Adam Hunter, by the daughter 
 of Elspet Craig, who died in giving birth 
 to the infant ; and it was to gratify the 
 prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused 
 to bring up the child on any other condi- 
 tion, that the parentage had been so in- 
 dustriously concealed. 
 
 The unfortunate Adam Hunter was exe- 
 cuted according to his sentence. At the 
 time of his execution, considerable uproar 
 was observed among the populace, who, 
 displaying the usual shrewdness of the 
 lower orders in Scotland, perceived that, 
 although Adam could not be justified, he 
 was only one of the actors in the tragedy ; 
 and that, while their unfortunate country- 
 man was expiating his crime by an igno- 
 minious death, the English knight, whose 
 enmity toward Richard Forster, and shame- 
 ful conduct toward Adam's daughter, were 
 now generally known, was allowed to es- 
 cape. 
 
 The rumors thus (;^rculated by the 
 crowd at the execution of Adam Hunter 
 were not unknown to the crown officers, 
 who felt the force of the extraordinary 
 circumstance, that Richard Forster should, 
 on that fatal night, have worn the clothes 
 of his master. That fact was, moreover, 
 in a considerable degree, explained by 
 another, which had been elicited from one I 
 
 of Sir Willoughby's servants, of the name 
 of William Evans, viz., that Sir Willough- 
 by and Richard had had a quarrel, which 
 produced high words between the par- 
 tics, and some threats on the part 
 of the knight. The crown officers were, 
 besides, moved by the curious circum- 
 stance, that Margaret Williamson had so 
 artfully evaded the question put to her on 
 the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter ; 
 while it was almost impossible to believe 
 that she would not have communicated to 
 Sir Willoughby the plot that was laid for 
 his life, notwithstanding the injury she 
 had received by being made the victim of 
 his seduction. 
 
 A warrant was accordingly issued for 
 the apprehension of Sir Willoughby Som- 
 erset. Ho was found by the officers in 
 the company of Lady Arabella Winford, 
 torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. 
 The charge against him was the murder of 
 Richard Forster, perpetrated by his hav- 
 ing, sciens et prudens^ sent him where 
 death awaited him. Application was in 
 the meantime, again made by the crown 
 officers to Margaret Williamson, for infor- 
 mation as to whether she had had any 
 communication with Sir Willoughby on 
 the day on which Richard Forster was 
 slain. Margaret's answers were still of an 
 evasive character, and her examinators left 
 her, stating that they would visit her 
 again, and use some other means of extort- 
 ing the truth. Before this threat was put 
 in execution, the knight, having heard 
 that Margaret was in the hands of the ex- 
 aminators, overcome by fear and coward- 
 ice, and indulging the mean and despicable 
 hope of being able to persuade his victim 
 to save his life a second time, still without 
 rendering her justice, sent for her to visit 
 him in prison — a request with which she 
 instantly complied. 
 
 " My fair Margaret," commenced the 
 knight, '* I have sent for thee to know 
 what are still thy feelings towards one who 
 loves thee, and now requires some aid and 
 consolation, such as only thou canst ren- 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 419 
 
 der him. I flatter myself that, at one 
 time, 1 was not indifferent to thee ; and, 
 if my present peril were past (and thou 
 art the arbiter of my fate), I may find a 
 suitable opportunity of showing thee that 
 I still love thee as fervently as I did 
 when 1 used to meet thee, by the light of 
 the moon, at the Hunter's Rest. I under- 
 stand that my persecutors have been with 
 thee, and it is my pleasure to be informed, 
 from thy own fair lips, that it is not thy 
 intention to communicate to them what 
 passed between thee and me in my garden, 
 on the day of the death of my worthless 
 servant." 
 
 " I didna think," replied Margaret, 
 with calmness and dignity, " that Sir 
 Willoughby Somerset could hae sae far 
 mistaken the heart of Maro-aret William- 
 son as to hae found, in the compass o' his 
 ain, any doubt sufficient to cause him to 
 put that question to her. Aince already 
 hae I saved your life, and I would be laith 
 to throw that awa now which I had before 
 sae meikle pains — though, wae's my heart ! 
 sae little thanks or reward — to preserve. 
 Na, na ; let the officers of the law tak' 
 their course — mine has been lang fixed ; 
 and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scot- 
 land, and even the black wuddy itseP, 
 winna wrest frae me sae meikle as would 
 injure a single hair o' your head. It may 
 be that I only preserve ye for the love o' 
 anither ; but I will at least hae that satis- 
 faction — and it is better to the broken 
 heart than a fause love that has now nae 
 power to bind it — that I hae rendered, as 
 our holy religion inculcates, good for 
 evil." 
 
 These sentiments only interested or 
 concerned Sir Willoughby in so far as 
 they told him that the fair maiden would 
 not betray him. He mistook entirely the 
 Scotch character generally ; and he had 
 not himself any of those high-minded 
 qualities which could enable him to appre- 
 ciate Margaret's. Betrayed, by her de- 
 termination to do justice to her own 
 standard of female duty, into an idea that 
 
 the sacrifices she had thrown, and was 
 again to throw, on the shrine of that duty 
 which she had, in her fervid imagination 
 deified, were mere indications of a wish to 
 oblige and conciliate him. Sir Willoughby 
 thought he might safely go a step farther, 
 and endeavor to wring out of her the writ- 
 ten promise of marriage he had so un- 
 guardedly given her. He began by using 
 some more of the bland language by which 
 he had originally beguiled her ; but he 
 had scarcely approached the subject on 
 which her mind was fixed, when Margaret 
 with the perspicacity of her sex in these 
 tender points, interrupted him ; and, raising 
 herself to the utmost extent of her heio-ht. 
 while the fire flashed from her dark blue 
 eye, said — 
 
 " If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' 
 shame I hae carried for six moons under 
 my broken heart, and restore to me my 
 lost repute, aince pure as the snaw that 
 the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir 
 and mountain, and tear from my puir 
 crazy brain the image I hae made an idol 
 o', and on whose unholy altar I hae sacri- 
 ficed my maiden virtue — and maybe that 
 eternal life that hasna been promised to 
 the trafficker in sin — then. Sir Willough- 
 by, ye may ask me for that whilk stands 
 to me in the place of ane haly covenant, 
 and is the only solace left to bind up my 
 broken spirit, and be a sign and a token 
 to your bairn whom I hae yet to bear, that 
 its puir mother, though doubtless guilty 
 o' a great sin was the victim o' a knight's 
 broken troth, and maybe entitled to a drap 
 o' mercy in her burning cup. Tell me. 
 Sir, to keep frae the officers of the law 
 the secret that would bring ye to a shame- 
 fu' death, and 1 will part wi' it as sune 
 as I will part wi' the written testimonial 
 of what a merciful God, and the less mer- 
 ciful laws o' my countrie, may, peradven- 
 ture, deal wi' as ane haly bond o' matri- 
 mony." 
 
 With these words, Margaret abruptly 
 left the prison, and Sir Willoughby, con- 
 cerned only for his liberation, denied ac- 
 
420 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 cess to his heart to the sentiments which 
 reflected !^o much honor on the feelings of 
 his victim, from whom he was entitled to 
 expect nothing hut revenge. 
 
 Margaret was soon again visited hy the 
 officers of the law ; hut she remained firm 
 to her resolution, not to say anything tend- 
 ino" to implicate Sir Willoughby. Re- 
 course was therefore had, according to the 
 usages of that period, to the ordinary mode 
 of dealins: with an unwillintr witness. She 
 was now told, that, as a person refractory 
 and disobedient to the laws of her country, 
 she must go to prison, where the means of 
 extorting her withholden testimony would 
 be more in the power of the crown offi- 
 cials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to 
 the prison in which Sir Willoughby was 
 confined, and intimation was solemnly 
 made to her, that, on the following morn- 
 ing, she would be subjected to the rack of 
 the thumbikins. The threat was fulfilled 
 with fidelity and vigor. On the first ap- 
 plication of this cruel instrument, the poor 
 girl screamed with agony ; but the unsta- 
 bility of her frame, attenuated and weak- 
 ened by her previous sufferings, and her 
 pregnancy, loosened, under the cfi'ect of 
 the torture, that connexion between ago- 
 ny and resolution, without which all tor- 
 tured methods of extorting testimony must 
 be unavailing. Every increased pressure 
 produced an agonized scream, succeeded 
 by a state of insensibility, or faint, which 
 these deluded searchers for truth had as 
 much difficulty in bringing her out of, as 
 they had in producing. The torture con- 
 tinued to be applied, at stated intervals, 
 for days, and the screams of the unfortu- 
 nate maiden could not fail to find their 
 way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the 
 wretch by whom her sufl"erings had been 
 occasioned. Little impression, however, 
 "was produced on Margaret's resolution to 
 die with her secret ; and, upon the occa- 
 sion of one application of the instrument, 
 the syncope produced had so long a peri- 
 od of duration, that the medical man who 
 was present declared that it could not be 
 
 applied again without danger of producing 
 death. 
 
 The officers were now inclined to allow 
 the period of JNIargaret's pregnancy to pass 
 before they again applied the instrument 
 — a circumstance of rather an anomalous 
 nature in the proceedings of these lovers 
 of truth ; for a true medical philalothes 
 would naturally have conceived, that the- 
 wcaker the habit of the patient, the more 
 certain was the chance of a recovery. In 
 the meantime, however, a circumstance 
 came to the ears of the king's prosecutor, 
 which induced him to relax his energies 
 in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. 
 Several of his servants now declared (no 
 doubt bv the aid of concealed briberv), 
 that Richard Forster was in the habit of 
 attiring himself in his master's garments, 
 and personating him in the prosecution of 
 amours. In addition to this, Janet Hun- 
 ter, though called upon, could not swear 
 Margaret Williamson had stirred from the 
 house on the day of the murder. Unable 
 to force Margaret to speak, and influenced 
 by the testimony of these witnesses, the 
 public prosecutor came to the resolution 
 of liberating Sir Willoughby, and the 
 knight was accordingly let out of gaol. 
 
 Within a few hours after his liberation, 
 he was on his way to England, in compa- 
 ny with Lady Arabella. He had devoted 
 the whole period of his imprisonment to 
 writinir letters to her, and ventiucr curses 
 against Scotland. ^Margaret Williamson 
 was forgotten, in the hope of finding 
 in the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea 
 for his "wi'ongs, and a solace of his suffer- 
 ings — for it is as true as it is remarkable, 
 that the truly wicked arc the most queru- 
 lous of justice, and the most impatient of 
 her retribution.^. 
 
 Nothing was, for a long time, heard of 
 Sir Willoughby ; but she whom he had 
 ruined and deserted, remained to the in- 
 habitants of Edinburgh as an object of 
 their pity, and an example to their chil- 
 dren. Margaret bore a son, and Janet 
 Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 421 
 
 the loss of Adam. Margaret was thus 
 left to the charity of a world, which is 
 often moved to pity only through the sel- 
 fish conceit of a comparison between the 
 alms-giver and the alms-rcccivcr, and 
 begged her bread from the doors of the 
 inhabitants of Edinburgh. 
 
 Five years after the transactions now 
 detailed, and when King James had been 
 nearly as long seated on the throne of 
 England, Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in 
 the confidence of the king, arrived in 
 Edinburgh. He was observed to make 
 inquiries after a person of the name of 
 Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he 
 was informed, resided in a small ground 
 room in the White Horse Close, in the 
 Cannongate of Edinburgh. A man who 
 was standing at the top of Leith Wynd 
 took him to Margaret's residence. Upon 
 entering the humble abode, he found the 
 object of his search making ponidge for 
 the son of the Eno;lish kni^iiht. Lionel 
 entered into conversation with Marf>;aret, 
 and endeavored to draw her into a recital 
 of the story of her life ; but she evaded, 
 though in the gentlest manner, his efforts, 
 stating, that her griefs and her secrets 
 were her own, and that the making the one 
 known would not make the other unfelt. 
 She had been much annoyed, she said, by 
 the impertinent interrogations of gossiping 
 people, who often insulted her by with- 
 holding their charity when they found their 
 love of gossip ungratified. 
 
 Lionel made many visits to Margaret, 
 and, by degrees, succeeded in breaking 
 down her reluctance to speak of herself. 
 He told her, that he had been commis- 
 sioned to visit her, and had come down to 
 Scotland for the sole purpose of seeing 
 and serving her, and pledged his honor, 
 as a gentleman, that the only use he would 
 make of her information would be in turn- 
 ing it to her advantage. He was evidently 
 already well acquainted with many parts 
 of her story ; but the chief object of his 
 inquiry related to the written promise of 
 marriage which, he had been given to un- 
 
 derstand, she had got from Sir Willough- 
 by. Margaret, at first, would not admit 
 that any such document existed, and ap- 
 peared to feel acute pain from Lionel's 
 urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, 
 at last, by his importunity, she went to a 
 little chest, which was secreted in a recess 
 dug into the wall of her apartment, and 
 having drawn it out, and opened it with 
 trembling hands, she took from it the 
 small, but curiously folded piece of paper, 
 still retaining the fragrance with which 
 Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested 
 it. With convulsive sobs, Margaret look- 
 ed at the paper, and handed it to the stran- 
 ger. Lionel read it, and found it to con- 
 tain the following words, written in a 
 small affected character, which bore evi- 
 dent traces of having been penned by the 
 writer when in a state borderins; at least 
 on intoxication. " Sir Willoughby Somer- 
 set, of Somerset Hall, knight of the noble 
 order of — (here there was drawn a rude 
 image of George and the dragon) — doth, 
 by these lines, declare that he doth truly 
 intend to wed Margaret Williamson ; and 
 this he promises to do on the faith of a 
 kniijht of the order to which he belongs. 
 Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day 
 of April, in the year of the succession of 
 King James to the throne of England." 
 
 This document Lionel copied, and hav- 
 ing returned the original to Margaret, he 
 asked her if she would accompany him to 
 London. 
 
 " If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Som- 
 erset," answered she, " I will sooner walk 
 to the grave o' Sir Patrick Spence and 
 the Scottish lords wha lie between Leith 
 and Aberdour." 
 
 " It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my 
 fair maiden," said Sh- Lionel ; " and if 
 thou wilt trust to the honor of one who is 
 not a knight, 1 promise thee thou shalt 
 not have cause to regi-et thy journe3^" 
 
 After much solicitation, Margaret 
 agreed to go to London, and take her 
 child with her ; and Lionel having got her 
 equipped her in a manner so as to escape 
 
422 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 observation, they departed for London, 
 where they arrived after ten days' travel- 
 ling. On their arrival, Margaret and her 
 child were taken to respectable lodgings, 
 where she was requested to remain till 
 Lionel called for her. 
 
 After some days, a coach drove up to 
 the door, and a lady carrying a bundle, 
 came out, and asked to be shown to the 
 apartment occupied by the Scotch lady. 
 This was the wife of Lionel, who brought 
 with her a number of specimens of tartan, 
 which she exhibited to Margaret, request- 
 ing her to point out the kind she wore 
 when she lived with Adam Hunter. This 
 Margaret did ; and the next request made 
 by the lady was, that Margaret should de- 
 scribe to her the shape of the garment, 
 and the manner in which she wore it ; all 
 of which Margaret complied with, and the 
 lady departed. 
 
 In two days more, the same lady called 
 with the garment made, and requested 
 Margaret to put it on, and, with the child, 
 accompany her to the place where she was 
 going. Margaret complied, and they de- 
 parted together in the coach. After 
 driving for some little time, the coach 
 stopped at a large house, into which they 
 entered. The lady led Margaret and her 
 child up a great many stairs, and round 
 winding passages, until they came to a 
 room, where she was requested to remain. 
 After waiting about ten minutes, a gentle- 
 man of a fair complexion entered, and 
 shook her kindly by the hand, launching, 
 at the same time, and without any expla- 
 nation, into a quick-spoken and confused 
 speech, which formed a part of his saluta- 
 lion. 
 
 *' Why, woman, didna ye mak' some 
 legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae your 
 braw lover, Sir VVilloughby Somerset ? 
 Can it be possible that ye dinna ken, that, 
 by the law o' your country, a promise o' 
 marriage, coupled wi' a — a — hem ! hem ! 
 — a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, 
 as gude a marriage as if it were celebrated 
 wi' a' the solemnities o' haly kirk ? By my 
 
 royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly 
 lassie, whatever folk may say o' ye, prais- 
 ing ye for the hich and michtie honor ye 
 made sae meikle fashion o', to save the 
 life of a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha ruined 
 ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the 
 wuddy o' my countrie, though made o' 
 gude aik, a mair suitable wife to him, God 
 wot, than the like o' ye. But lat that 
 alane — tempus reparahit — ha ! ha ! ye 
 ye ken naething o' Latin, I fancy, but I 
 meant only by that flicht to tell ye that 
 ye will be revenged." 
 
 While in the act of delivering this 
 strange speech, the gentleman began to 
 drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of 
 the room where they were, into another ; 
 his speech and the dragging operation 
 going on at the same time. She now 
 found herself in a large hall, where she 
 saw an elevated chair, overshadowed by a 
 canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of 
 which was a crown. The gentleman, still 
 in the same confused manner — speaking 
 sometimes to himself, and sometimes to 
 her — shoved her behind a small screen, 
 apparently placed there for the purpose of 
 concealing some one, telling her to remain 
 there until she was called for. 
 
 The folding-doors of the apartment now 
 opened, and Margaret heard the voices of 
 heralds, and saw a great number of high- 
 dressed ladies and gentlemen come in, and 
 stand round the elevated chair. Anions: 
 these, she observed Sir W^illoughby So- 
 merset, and a lady (the same she had 
 seen in the garden of the House of Gor- 
 don) leaning upon his arm. " Come 
 forth, Margaret Williamson," cried the 
 gentleman who had first spoken to her ; 
 and Margaret, with her tartan plaid around 
 her, and her child at her foot, stood be- 
 fore King James. Opposite to her, stood 
 Sir Willoughby Somerset and his lady, 
 dressed in the most gorgeous style, and 
 forming a stransie and strikina; contrast 
 with the plaided stranger. 
 
 " I am right glad," said James, " to see 
 my auld subjects o' my native kingdom ; 
 
THE HEROINE. 
 
 423 
 
 and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, 
 and wish ye and your bairn mony braw 
 days. I also greet ye wecl, Sir Willough- 
 by Somersetj Knight, and your braw led- 
 die, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, 
 in sae meikle as she is nearest your heart, 
 in the fashion o' the connexion whilk 
 exists between our auld Scotch wuddy 
 and the heart o' Mid-Loudon. But awa' 
 wi' this — Et nunc labor es exallare — 
 whilk means, to wark, to wark. Ken ye 
 this Scotch lassie, Sir Willoughby Somer- 
 set?" 
 
 " No, Sire," answered the Knight, in 
 evident confusion, but still retaiiling a 
 portion of his natural impudence. 
 
 " It's fause, Sir," answered the King, 
 whose choler now rose to the boiling point 
 of his royal fervor — " It's fause. Sir ; ye 
 ken her as weel as did our royal faither our 
 royal mither, or as Hamman did his wud- 
 dy, whilk was made o' sweet-smelling ce- 
 dar, as is clearly made out by the learn- 
 ed Chrysostom. I canna believe you ; for 
 our royal brither Solomon hath said, that 
 if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants 
 shall be wicked. But, maybe, ye may 
 ken your ain handwriting, better than ye 
 do the lassie. Look at that, man; do ye 
 ken that .^" 
 
 Sir Willoughby was silent. 
 
 " I will take your silence, man, for an 
 ill-favored confession ; and now. Sir, let 
 it be understood by ye, that that bit writ- 
 ino; and that bit callant — wha doesna ken 
 ye sae weel as ye ken his mither — maks a 
 gude marriage by the law o' Scotland. 
 I dinna mean. Sir, in the presence o' this 
 assembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will 
 
 serve the purposes o' justice ; and I leave 
 ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about 
 ye as reflection, how ye treated this puir 
 lassie, wham ye ruined, and wha, though 
 fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, 
 are given, as Ecclesiasticus says, for ven- 
 geance, sat quietly and sucked, wi' her 
 honied lips ( seeking nae mair satisfaction), 
 the poison which your shaft carried to her 
 broken heart ; and wha, though exposed 
 to terrible and racking tortures, saved, on 
 twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her 
 ain. Now, Sir, though the lassie can 
 claim ye as her husband, she alone has 
 the power o' severing that connexion, on 
 the ground o' your cohabitation wi' that 
 leddie, wham ye call your wife ; whilk 
 power, by my advice, she will doubtless 
 exercise. But, Sir, there maun here be 
 a solatium ; and I ask you if ye are will- 
 ing to sign that paper whilk Lionel Aps- 
 ley is ready to shaw ye .'^" 
 
 Sir Willoughby took the document, 
 which purported to be a conveyance to 
 Margaret Williamson, in liferent, and her 
 son, in foe, of one-half of the domain of 
 Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to 
 iB5,000 a-year ; and, having read it, he 
 seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his 
 hesitation, James whispered in his ear, 
 the name of Richard Forster. His man- 
 ner changed, and he signed the deed. 
 
 Margaret Williamson received the deed 
 from the King, giving, in return, one of 
 her best curtsies. She came down to 
 Scotland, prosecuted a divorce against 
 Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a 
 much honored and respected lady, in 
 Edinburgh, for many years. 
 
42^i 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 JOHNNY BEOTHERTON'S FIVE SUNNY DAYS. 
 
 I HAVE experienced many days both of 
 sorrow and of sadness, in the course of my 
 life and experience (said old John Bro- 
 therton of Peebles) ; but with me by-past 
 sorrows were always like an auld almanac 
 — a book that I never opened. Yet weel 
 do I remember the five sunniest days of my 
 existence. They were days of brightness 
 and of joy, without a spot to cloud them. 
 They took place, also, at very various pe- 
 riods of my existence. I no doubt have 
 had, independent of them, many pleasant, 
 warm, bonny days — days wherein I was 
 both pleased and happy. But they passed 
 away like any other fine day, and they 
 werena remembered for a week. But very 
 different from the like of these ordinary 
 fine days, were those which I allude to as 
 the five sunny days of my existence. They 
 were days of pure, unadulterated, uncloy- 
 ed, almost insupportable delight. They 
 were days, the remembered sunshine of 
 which will not set in my breast, until my 
 life set in the grave. But 1 will give you 
 an account of them. 
 
 The first occurred when I was about 
 twenty years of age. It was a delightful 
 evening in the month of September, on 
 the second day of the month, and just 
 about five minutes past six o'clock. I had 
 just dropped work — for I was a souter, or 
 more appropriately a cordwainer — and had 
 thrown off" my apron and washed my face, 
 and I was taking a saunter up off the 
 Tweed abit, on the road leading down to 
 Innerleithen. I cannot say that I had any 
 object in view, beyond just the healthful 
 recreation of a walk in the fields, after 
 the labors of the day. The sun seemed 
 to be maybe about a dozen of yards aboon 
 the hill top ; but there wasna a cloud in 
 the whole sky, save ae wee bit yellow one, 
 hardly broader than the brim of a Qua- 
 
 ker's hat, that was keekincr owre the hill, 
 as if to kep the sun. Oh, it was a glori- 
 ous evening ! I daresay it never was 
 equalled at the season of the year. I am 
 sure the leaves, poor things, that were 
 falling here and there from the trees and 
 hedges, if they could have thought, would 
 hae been vexed to fall frae their branches, 
 while a' nature was basking in such sun- 
 niness. 
 
 I met several shearers, wi' their hooks 
 owre their arms, just as I was gaun out o' 
 the town, and I spoke to them, and they 
 spoke to me ; but some o' them nodded 
 and laughed at me, and said — " She's 
 coming, Johnny." 
 
 " Wha's coming ?" said I. 
 
 And they laughed again, and said — 
 " Gang forward and see." 
 
 So I went forward, and sure enough, 
 who should I see standing beside a yctt, 
 with her hook owre her shouther, and 
 picking the prickles of a day-nettle out of 
 her hand, but bonny Kate Lowrie — not 
 only the comeliest lass in the burgh of 
 Peebles, but in all the wide county. I 
 had long been desperately in love with 
 Katie, but I had never ventured to say as 
 meikle to her ; though I was aware that 
 she was conscious of the state of my feel- 
 in2:s. We had often walked toirether on 
 an evening, and I had gien her her fairing, 
 and the like of that, but I never could get 
 the length of talking about love or mar- 
 riasre ; and scores of times had her and me 
 walked by the side of each other, for half 
 an hour at a time, without either of us 
 speaking a word, beyond saying — " Eh, 
 but this is a fine nio-ht !" half a dozen times 
 owre — so ye may guess that we were a 
 bashfu' couple. 
 
 But on the night referred to, as I have 
 said, I saw her standing at a yett, taking a 
 
JOHNNY BROTHERTON^S FIVE SUNNY DAYS, 
 
 423 
 
 thorn of some kind out of her hand ; and 
 I stepped forward and said to her — " What 
 has got into your hand, Katie ?" 
 
 " It's a jaggy frae a day-nettle, I think, 
 John," said she. 
 
 "Let me try if I can tak it oot," said I. 
 She blushed, and the setting sun just 
 streamed across her face. I'll declure I 
 never saw a woman look so beautiful in 
 my born days. Ye might have lighted a 
 candle at my heart at the moment, I am 
 certain. But I did get her bonny soft 
 hand in mine ; and as I held it, I am cer- 
 tain I would not have exchansced that hand 
 to have held the sceptre of the king that 
 sits upon the throne. I soon got out the 
 prickles — but I was so overjoyed at having 
 her hand in mine that when they were out, 
 I still held it in my left hand; while, 
 whether it was by accident or how, I can- 
 na tell, but I slipped my hand round her 
 waist ; and in this fashion we sauntered 
 away. But instead of going straight to 
 the town, we daundered away down to 
 Tweedside. 
 
 Weel do I remember of pressing her to 
 my breast in more than mortal joy, and of 
 saying to her — " O Katie, Katie, woman, 
 will ye be mine ? — will ye marry me, and 
 mak mc the happiest man that ever put 
 his foot in a shoe on the face of this ha- 
 bitable o-lobe .?" 
 
 She hung her head, and, poor thing ! 
 her bosom heaved like a frighted bird's. 
 But, oh ! what ecstasy it was to feel its 
 heaving ! For a good hour did I stand 
 pressing her breast to mine, and saying — 
 " Will ye, Katie ? Oh, will ye, woman .^" 
 At last, with a great effort, and her very 
 heart bursting with pure affection, she 
 flung her arms owrc my sliouthers, and 
 said— "I will, John!" 
 
 Oh ! of all the words that ever a human 
 beinsc heard, nothino; could match the mu- 
 sic of those three words to me. It was 
 sweeter than the harp of a fairy soughing 
 owre a moonlight sea, when the winds of 
 heaven are sleeping. 
 
 " Oh, bless ye ! bless ye !— for ever 
 
 bless ye !" cried I — " Katie, ye hae made 
 me the happiest man in a' Peebles, an' I 
 trust I shall mak ye the happiest wife." 
 
 I absolutely danced wi' joy, and clapped 
 my hands aboon my head. If ever there 
 was a man intoxicated wi' joy, it was me 
 that night ; and I atn certain that her joy 
 was nothing less than mine, though she 
 did not express it so extravagantly. 
 
 Neither the one nor the other of us 
 heard the town clock chap nine. Three 
 hours flew owre our heads as if they hadna 
 been three minutes. 1 set her to her fai- 
 ther's door, and just as she was putting 
 her hand upon the sneck — " Eh, John !" 
 whispered she, " where can I hae left my 
 hook.?" 
 
 " That's weel minded," said I ; "I re- 
 member I took it off yer shouther, an' put 
 it owre the yett, when I was takin' the 
 prickles oot o' yer finger." 
 
 Ye may think of what baith of us had 
 been thinking about, when neither of us 
 missed the hook, or remembered leaving; 
 it till that moment. We went to seek it, 
 with her arm through mine (and close to 
 my side I pressed it), and there, accord- 
 ingly, did wo find the hook upon the yett 
 where I had placed it. 
 
 She was rather feared to gang into the 
 house, on account of her beins: out so late, 
 for her faither and mother were strict sort 
 0' folk. Therefore, I volunteered to go 
 in wi' her, and explain at once how mat- 
 ters stood. For, bashful as I was before 
 telling my mind to her, I had broken the 
 ice now, and was as bold as brass. 
 
 vShe hesitated for some time ; but I 
 urged the thing, and she consented, and 
 into her faither's I v/ent wi' her. I wasna 
 long in making the auld man acquainted 
 wi' the nature of my visit, and frankly 
 asked him, if he had any sort of objection 
 to taking me for a son-in-law. 
 
 " I watua," said he, " but I daresay no 
 I dinna see ony reasonable objection that 
 I ought to hae. What do ye say, Tibbie .?" 
 added he to his wife, 
 
 "Me!" added she; "what would ye 
 
426 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 hacmetoGay? Johnny is a decent lad 
 and a guid tradesman ; and if lie likes 
 Katie, and Katie likes him, I dinna see 
 that you or I can do onything in the mat- 
 ter, but just leave it to their twa sells." 
 
 " Weel, John," said her faither to me, 
 " as Tibbie says, I suppose it will just 
 have to rest between yoursels. If ye are 
 baith agreeable, we are agreeable." 
 
 I wonder I didna jump through the roof 
 of the house. Joy almost deprived me of 
 my specific gravity. Never, since I was 
 born, had I experienced such sensations 
 of ecstasy before. 
 
 Now, this was what I call my first real 
 sunny day. It was a day of memorable 
 joy — and joy, too, of a particular descrip- 
 tion, and which a man can feel but once 
 in the course of his existence. 
 
 I can say, without vanity, that I had 
 always been a saving lad, and, therefore, 
 in the course of two or three weeks, I took 
 a house, which 1 furnished very respecta- 
 bly. And my second sunny day, was that 
 on- which Katie, and her faither, and her 
 mother, and a lass that was an intimate 
 acquaintance of hers, came a' to my new 
 house together — Katie never to leave it 
 ao-ain — for the minister just came in after 
 them. Oh! when I heard the minister 
 pronounce us one, and gie us his benedic- 
 tion as man and wife — and, aboon all, 
 when I thought she was now mine — nwie 
 for ever — that nothing upon earth could 
 separate us — I almost wondered that poor 
 sinful mortals such as we are, should be 
 permitted to enjoy such unspeakable hap- 
 piness on this side of time. The very tears 
 stood in my eyes wi' perfect ecstasy, and 
 I could not forbear, before the minister 
 and them a', of squeezing her hand, and 
 saying — " IMy am Katie !'' 
 
 It was October, but a very mild day, 
 and a vO.ry sunny day — indeed it might, 
 in all respects, have passed for a day in 
 xVugust. After dinner, the room became 
 rather warm, and the window was drawn 
 down from the top. There was a lark 
 singing its autumn song right aboon the 
 
 house, and its loud sweet notes came pour- 
 ing in by the window. 
 
 ''Poor thing," thought I, " your joys 
 arc ending, and mine are only beginninof ; 
 but I trust, in the autumn of my days, to 
 sing as blithely as ye do now." 
 
 I gied another glance at my ain Katie, 
 and as I contemplated her lovely counte- 
 nance, I felt as a man that was never to 
 know sorrow ; for I didna see how it was 
 possible for sorrow to be where such an- 
 gel sweetness existed. 
 
 That was my second sunny day ; and 
 my third followed after in the natural 
 course of time ; for the event that rendered 
 it memorable was neither more nor less 
 than the birth of my first-born — my only 
 son. I was walking out in the fields when 
 the tidings were brought to me ; and when 
 I found that I had cause to ofier thanks 
 for a living mother and a living child, wi' 
 perfect joy the tears ran down my cheeks 
 I silently prayed for my Katie and for 
 " my bairn.'''' When I thought that a man- 
 son was born unto me, and that I was in- 
 deed a faither, the pride and the joy of my 
 heart were almost too great for me to , 
 bear. I would not have exchansied the 
 natural and honorable title of faither , to ^ 
 have been made Emperor of Russia and i 
 King of Madagascar. 
 
 It was a glorious day in the height of 
 summer, and as I hurried home to see, to 
 kiss, my bairn and its mother, I believe 
 the very flowers by the roadside were con- 
 scious that it was a faither, a new-made 
 faither, that trampled on them, I did it so 
 quickly and so lightly. But great as my 
 joy then was, it was nothing to be com- 
 pared with what I felt when I saw my 
 Katie and our bairn, and when my lips 
 touched theirs. O man ! I then did feel 
 the full, the overflowing ecstasy of a fai- 
 ther's heart. Never shall I forget it. 
 That was the third of my five sunny days. 
 The fourth was of a diflferent descrip- 
 tion, but gied me unmingled satisfaction, 
 and perhaps I may say, was in some sort 
 the foundation of the one which succeeded. 
 
JOHNNY BROTHERTON'S FIVE SUNNY DAYS. 
 
 A2: 
 
 Now, I must make you sensible that 
 Katie made a very notable wife. In her 
 household affairs, she set an example that 
 was worthy of imitation by every wife in 
 Peebles. There was naething wasted in 
 her house, and the shadow of ony thing 
 extravagant was never seen within her 
 door. 
 
 One night, about six weeks after our 
 marriage, she and I were sitting at the 
 fireside, by our twa sells (for we never 
 made our house a howff for neighbors and 
 their clashes), when she said to me very 
 seriously — " John, I've often heard it said, 
 that the first hundred pounds is worse to 
 make than the next five hundred. Do ye 
 no think it possible for you and mc to save 
 a hundred .'"' 
 
 " I watna, my dear," said I ; " though 
 I say it myself, there are none belonging 
 to the craft that can make better wages 
 than I can, and if it is your desire to make 
 the endeavor — wi' all my heart, say I." 
 
 So the thing was agreed upon, and we set 
 about it the very next day. I got a strong 
 wooden box made, wi' a hole on the top, 
 just about long enough and broad enough 
 to let in a penny-piece edgeways ; and I 
 caused a bit leather, like a tongue, to be 
 nailed owre the inside of the hole, so that 
 whatever was put in, coudna be taken out 
 again till the box was broken open. 
 
 For many a day, both her and me 
 wrought hard, both late and early, to ac- 
 complish it. We neither allowed the back 
 to gang bare or shabby, nor did we scrimp 
 our coggie, during our endeavors ; but we 
 avoided every sixpence, every farthing of 
 unnecessary expense. 
 
 At length Katie says to me one day, just 
 after denner-time — " John, I daresay we 
 will have the hundred pounds now. If ye 
 have nae objection we will open the box 
 and see." 
 
 It was the very thing which I had been 
 wishing her to propose for months ; and 
 up I banged upon the kist, and put my 
 hand on the head of the bed, where the 
 box was kept. It was torribij heavy, and 
 
 it required both of my hands to lift it 
 down. 
 
 I forced up the lid, and having locked 
 the door, I placed the box upon the table. 
 The sun was streaming in at the window 
 sae bright that ye would have said it was 
 aware of the satisfaction of Katie and my- 
 seP, as we saw it streaming upon the heap 
 of treasure which our own industry had 
 gathered together. It took us from two 
 in the afternoon until six at night to count 
 it; for it consisted of gold, silver, and 
 copper ; and we counted it thrice over, 
 before we made it come twice to the same 
 sum. At last we were satisfied that it 
 amounted to one hundred and fifteen 
 pounds, seven shillings and eightpence 
 half-penny. 
 
 When I ascertained that the object of 
 my desire, and of my late and early sav- 
 ings, was accomplished, 1 was that happy 
 that I almost knocked owre the table 
 where it was all spread out, counted into 
 parcels of twenty shillings. I threw my 
 arms round Katie, wi' as meikle rapture 
 as I did on my first sunny day, when she 
 said — " I will, John ;" for the object was 
 of her proposing, and she had the entire 
 merit of the transaction. It was a grand 
 sight to see the sinking sun throwing the 
 shadow of the hundred and odd twenty- 
 shilling towers across the table, and to the 
 far side of the fioor. Folk talk of the 
 beauty of rainbows ; but there never was a 
 rainbow to be compared wi' the appearance 
 of our floor that evening, wi' a' the sha- 
 dows of the piles of siller running across 
 it. That was my fourth sunny day. 
 
 Finding that I was now a man of capi- 
 tal, I took a shop in the front street, and 
 commenced business as a maister boot and 
 shoe-maker. Katie was remarkably civil 
 in the shop, and I always tried to put good 
 stuff into the hands of customers, so that 
 in a very short time I carried on a very 
 prosperous concern. I also rose very high 
 in the opinion of my fellow-craftsmen ; 
 and, wonderful to relate I I heard that it 
 was their determination to elect me to the 
 
423 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 high and honorable office of deacon of the 
 corporation of our ancient and respectable 
 trade, in the ancient burgh of Peebles. 
 
 This was a height to which my ambi- 
 tion never could have aspired, and when I 
 heard of the intention of the brethren, it 
 really made me that I couldna sleep. It 
 made me not only dream that I was a dea- 
 con, but a king, a prince, a bashaw — a dear 
 kens what — but anything but plain John 
 Brotherton. I thought it was a hoax that 
 some of the craft were wishing to play off 
 on me ; therefore, I spoke of the subject 
 with great caution. But when it was put 
 into my head, there was nothing on the 
 earth that I so much desired. I thought 
 what an honor it would be, when I was 
 dead and gone, for my son to be able to 
 say — " Pvly father was deacon of the an- 
 cient company of cordwainers in Peebles !" 
 
 " What a sound that will have !" 
 thouo-ht I. On the morning of the elec- 
 tion I awoke fearing, believing, hoping, 
 trembling. I could hardly put on my 
 clothes. However, the choosing of office- 
 bearers began, and I was declared duly 
 elected deacon of the company of cord- 
 wainers. It was with difficulty that I re- 
 fraiiaed from clapping my hands in the 
 
 court, and I am positive I would not have 
 been able to do it, had it not been that 
 the brethren came crowding round me to 
 shake hands wi' me. 
 
 1 went home in very high glee, as ye 
 may well suppose, and Katie met me wi' 
 great joy in her looks. When the supper 
 was set upon the table — " Katie, my 
 dear," said I, " send out for a bottle of 
 strong ale." 
 
 " A bottle of strong ale, John !" quoth ' 
 she, in surprise ; " remember that though 
 ye hae been appointed deacon o' the shoe- 
 makers ye are but a mortal man ! Re- 
 member, John, that, it was by drinking 
 wholesome water, wi' pickles of oatmeal in 
 it, that enabled you to save a hundred 
 pounds, and so to become deacon of the 
 trade. But had ye sent for bottles of 
 strong ale to your supper, ye would neither 
 have saved the one, nor been made the 
 other. Na, na, John, think nae mair 
 about ale." 
 
 " Weel, weel," said I, " ye are right, 
 Katie — I canna deny it." 
 
 That was what I call my fifth sunny day 
 — a remarkable day in my existence, 
 standing out from amongst the rest, and 
 crowned wi' happiness. 
 
 THE RES TO II ED SON. 
 
 •On the banks of the Esk, in the county 
 of Dumfries, stood, some years since, a 
 handsome, substantial -looking mansion, 
 bearing all the marks of plenty and com- 
 fort ; while the neat ^nd elegant arrange- 
 ment of the grounds around, bore evidence 
 to the refined and chaste taste of its pro- 
 prietor, Gavin Douglas. He was a gentle- 
 man by birth, and, " if m3rit gave titles, 
 he might be a Lord," for a more kind- 
 •hearted, amiable Christian never existed. 
 
 He had succeeded to his father's property, 
 nearly thirty years before the time of 
 which we write, and had constantly resided 
 upon it ever since, growing daily in the 
 love and respect of all who knew him. 
 His appearance and address were par- 
 ticularly prepossessing ; he was tall and 
 ; upright in his person ; his manners were 
 j bland and gentleman-like ; and his fine 
 j expanded forehead and mild expressive 
 ' eye told of a warm and benevolent heart. 
 
THE RESTORED SON- 
 
 429 
 
 He Tvas a widower ; and his family were 
 at a distance — the sons in the pursuit of 
 their respective professions, and the 
 daughters all happily and comfortably 
 married, with the exception of the eldest, 
 who resided under his roof with her three 
 fatherless children. His eldest son, Ed- 
 ward, had been for some years settled in 
 a mercantile house in Calcutta, where he 
 had lately married, and had been admitted 
 as one of the partners of the firm. Gavin 
 Douglas well supplied the place of a father 
 to his little grandchildren ; his whole aim 
 seemed to be, to study their happiness, 
 and to soothe the sorrow of their bereaved 
 parent. 
 
 One summer evening, the family party 
 at Eskhall were seated in their comfort- 
 able drawing-room, engaged in that cheer- 
 ful, affectionate conversation which forms 
 the peculiar charm of a well-educated, 
 well-regulated family circle. The day had 
 been one of the most sultry and op- 
 pressive of the season ; but the clouds, 
 which gathered round the setting sun in 
 dark and gloomy masses, seemed as if 
 waiting in sullen silence for his disappear- 
 ance, to pour their fury upon the scenes to 
 which his rays had given beautj^ Nor 
 did they threaten in vain ; all the wrath- 
 ful energies of nature seemed to have 
 awakened at the very hour when man and 
 beast were about to saek repose. The 
 rain descended in torrents, and poured 
 forth, more like a continued stream than 
 a collection of single drops. The vivid, 
 forked lightning, appeared, in its ragged 
 and eccentric course, to tear asunder the 
 veil of darkness, only to render it doubly 
 visible, while, glancing ten thousand re- 
 flections from the falling rain-drops, it 
 flashed across the eyes of the family party, 
 startling and dazzling them with its sudden 
 and excessive brilliancy. The children 
 clung to their grandfather in mute and 
 breathless awe, and the whole party sat in 
 silence, uninterrupted, save by involuntary 
 ejaculations, which escaped them at each 
 successive flash. Not a breath of wind 
 
 was stirring, not a sound was to be heard, 
 but the dull, monotonous, incessant pat- 
 tering of the rain, and the loud, clear, 
 crackling burst of the thunder, as it rolled, 
 peal after peal, over their heads, and appa- 
 rently in dangerous p^oximit3^ At length, 
 the rain beo;an to relax in its violence, the 
 flashes of licrhtninor became less and less 
 vivid, and the thunder died away in faint 
 and distant murmurings. 
 
 " Grandfather !" said little Gavin, leav- 
 ing his stronghold between Douglas' knees, 
 " was not that an awful storm .'" 
 
 " Yes, my boy," replied the old man; 
 " awful, indeed ! and thankful ought we 
 to be to the good Providence which has 
 blessed us with a roof to shelter us, while 
 many an uncovered head has been exposed 
 to its violence. Such a night as this, 
 oufrht to awaken in us a spirit of gratitude 
 for the blessings we ourselves enjoy, and 
 of charity towards the vrants and sorrows 
 of others." 
 
 " Did you hear that strange noise dur- 
 ing the storm, grandfather .^" said little 
 Emma : " it sounded like the bleatina; of 
 a lamb close by ; but 1 was so much 
 frightened by the lightning at the time, 
 
 that I did not mention it to you, and 
 
 there it is an-ain !"' 
 
 A low, wailing, stifled kind of cry was 
 heard, which almost immediately ceased, 
 and the whole party started up, with looks 
 of surprise and alarm, and gazed at each 
 other, as if mutely inquiring from whence 
 the strange sound could j^roceed. Again 
 the cry was heard ; and iMr. Douglas, 
 seizing one of the candles, rushed to the 
 front door, to ascertain the cause of their 
 alarm. Great was his surj)rise to find, 
 under the porch, a small wicker basket, 
 covered with a coarse ragged shawl, on re- 
 moving which, he started to behold the lit- 
 tle chubby features of an infant, which 
 stretched out his little arms, and crowed 
 with delight at the sight of the candle. 
 jMr. Douglas'' first unpulse was to hurry 
 into the parlor, where our little hero was 
 safely deposited on a sofa, and exposed to 
 
430 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 the curious and inquiring gaze of the as- 
 sembled party. 
 
 " O grandpapa !'' shouted little Gavin, 
 clapping his hands, and dancing round the 
 baby, " I have often heard you say, ' It is 
 an ill wind that blows nobody good' — and 
 now see what a nice little brother the thun- 
 der storm has blown us." 
 
 " Inhuman wretches !" exclaimed Doug- 
 las, " to expose such a sweet infant, in a 
 night like this ! But they cannot be far 
 off!" And, ringing the bell violently, he 
 went out with some of the servants in pur- 
 suit of the supposed fugitives ; but vain 
 was their search ; every nook and corner 
 of the grounds were examined, but no 
 traces of any such could be discovered ; 
 and Douglas returned, fatigued and disap- 
 pointed, to the parlor. On examining the 
 basket in which the child had been laid, a 
 crumpled and dirty piece of paper was 
 discovered, on which was written, in a 
 tremblinf; and almost illen-ible hand, " Be 
 kind to the boy ! — he comes of a good 
 family. His name is Philip F. May 
 heaven prosper you, as you behave to 
 him !" There was likewise a signet ring, 
 with a few Persian characters engraved 
 upon it. The clothes in which the infant 
 was dressed, were formed of the best ma- 
 terials, neatly and plainly made, but bore 
 evident tokens of neglect and dirt. 
 
 *' Poor boy I" muttered Gavin ; " since 
 your own unnatural father has deserted 
 you, I will be a father to you. Here, Jane, 
 my love," addressing his daughter, " I 
 commit this stray lamb to your charge for 
 the present ; see that he is comfortably 
 settled in the little crib in your room." 
 
 Years passed on ; the little foundling 
 had become a tall, handsome stripling of 
 thirteen, as much beloved for his kind and 
 amiable disposition as he was admired for 
 his handsome form and bold and manly 
 spirit, when Gavin Douglas received a let- 
 ter from his son Edward, in Calcutta, in- 
 forming him that by the next ship he in- 
 tended to send his eldest daughter, who 
 was now seven years old, home to his cai-e. 
 
 The ship by which this letter had been 
 forwarded, having met with a succession 
 of light and baffling winds, had made so 
 long a passage that the little stranger whose 
 approach it announced might be now daily 
 expected. At length the newspapers gave 
 notice of the arrival off the Start of the 
 ship Cornwallis ; and Gavin Douglas pre- 
 pared to hasten up to town to receive his 
 granddaughter. Philip, who was at home 
 for his school holidays, and who was now 
 as dear to Douglas as if he had been his 
 own flesh and blood, entreated and obtain- 
 ed permission to accompany him. Owing 
 to a long continuance of easterly winds, 
 the Cornwallis made a tedious passage up 
 the Channel, and our travellers were de- 
 tained for some days at Gravesend, await- 
 ing her arrival. To Philip this delay was 
 most welcome ; the bustling scenes around 
 him seemed to arouse the latent energies 
 of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet 
 and peaceful monotony of a country life, 
 he felt as if a new sphere of existence was 
 opened to him ; and everything he beheld, 
 bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty 
 and excitement. His great delight was 
 to loiter for hours at the stairs (Graves- 
 end did not then boast of the handsome 
 jetty which now adorns it), and to gaze at 
 the numerous craft floatins; on the bosom 
 of the majestic Thames ; some lying at 
 anchor, and others taking advantage of 
 the tide to hasten towards their various 
 destinations. Frank and open in his man- 
 ner, eager and anxious in his thirst for in- 
 formation, the watermen, who were always 
 lounffinfr in numbers about the stairs, felt 
 a pleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and 
 in initiating him into all the mysteries of 
 river seamanship ; and he soon learned to 
 distiuo-uish the different '• risers" of the 
 passing vessels, from the lowly " peter- 
 boat" to the majestic ship. One morning 
 there was a dead calm ; the river was 
 gliding past unruffled by the slightest air ; 
 the cheerful " yo, heave, oh !" of the 
 sailors, and the loud clanking of the wind- 
 lass " pauls," were heard distinctly from 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 431 
 
 some of the distant colliers, shortening in 
 cable preparatory to making a start ; while 
 the rattling clattering sounds of the chains 
 were heard from others, which were just 
 " bringing up" — for it was high water, and 
 the upward-bound vessels were obliged to 
 come to anchor. Philip had been at his 
 usual post for some time, when his atten- 
 tion was attracted by the heavy sluggish 
 cloud of smoke which hung in the wake of 
 two steamers, whose low painted chimneys 
 were seen over the land, which they flitted 
 past with great rapidity, while the tall, 
 naked spars of a large ship towered far 
 above them. At length their hulls became 
 distinctly visible. 
 
 " Hand here the glass, Jem," said a 
 waterman, who was anxiously observing 
 them, to his comrade ; "let me have a 
 squint at her. Ah! I'd swear to her among 
 a thousand ! That's the old Cornwallis ! 
 Jump into the boat, Jem, and let's push out 
 into the stream." 
 
 Away flew our friend Philip to the inn, 
 to tell his father, as he called him, the 
 welcome news. The old gentleman hur- 
 ried down to the stairs, and the Cornwallis 
 had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend 
 Reach, before he and Philip were on her 
 quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Doug- 
 las. Captain M'Dougai of the Cornwallis 
 received them with the greatest politeness, 
 and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him 
 of the cause of his visit, he was immedi- 
 ately ushered into one of the round-house 
 cabins, where a little dark-eyed girl was 
 playing with her ayah. 
 
 " Catherine, my dear," said Captain 
 IM'Dougall, " here is your grandpapa come 
 to visit you." 
 
 Little Catherine, as we said before, was 
 seven years old, and, like most Indian 
 children, quick and clever beyond her 
 years. She was a brunette in complexion 
 — so much so indeed, that she might have 
 been mistaken for a descendant from pa- 
 rentage of the climate in which she had 
 been reared. Her eyes were dark, lively, 
 and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black 
 
 hair fell in clusters upon her shoulders. 
 The moment she heard Captain M'Dou- 
 gall's announcement, she dropped the toy 
 with which she was playing, and ran eager- 
 ly up to Douglas : — 
 
 " Are you really Grandpapa Gavin .^" 
 
 " Yes, my love," said the old gentleman, 
 almost smothering her with kisses. 
 
 " Are you quite sure .?" said she : 
 " then," looking smilingly up in his face, 
 " I think I love you very much. Grand- 
 papa." 
 
 Philip was now introduced, and, in five 
 minutes time, the two young people were 
 I sworn friends. Catherine had shown 
 Philip all her rich store of toys, and had 
 answered all his eager questions about the 
 voyage, the ship, the uses of various things 
 in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient, gen- 
 tle reader, at the details of this childish 
 meeting ; the happiness or misery of life 
 often depends upon trifles light as air, and 
 our friend Philip's future destiny took its 
 hue from the consequences of that inti- 
 macy of which we have just been describing 
 the commencement. In the course of a 
 fortnight, the travellers with their young 
 charge returned to Eskhall, where the lit- 
 tle stranger met with the most affectionate 
 welcome. The banks of the Esk were 
 beautiful as ever ; but, to Philip's eyes, 
 they had lost great part of their attraction ; 
 he had had a glimpse of the scenes of ac- 
 tive life, and he was eager to engage in 
 them. The country sports in which he 
 used to take such delight, began to lose 
 their relish ; and his principal amusement 
 now was to wander in the green fields with 
 little Catherine, and to listen to the tales 
 she told of her recollections of the distant 
 lands she had left. His curiosity was ex- 
 cited, and he burned with impatience to 
 visit them, and to judge for himself ; and 
 he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predi- 
 lection for a sailor's life, and his eager 
 wish to commence his career as soon as 
 circumstances would allow. Gavin's heart 
 yearned towards the handsome and spirit- 
 ed boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose 
 
4Z2 
 
 TALES OF THE B0R1>ERS. 
 
 tonguG bccaiiic eloq.uGnt as lie urged his 
 suit ; and he felt that {lie time was come, 
 •which he had Ions; looked forward to with 
 pain, when this young and ardent spirit 
 must leave his guardian care, and be in- 
 trusted to its own impulses. He talked 
 seriously and affectionately to the boy, on 
 the subject of his wishes ; told him, what 
 had hitherto been kept a secret from him 
 — the history of his first appearance at 
 Eskhall ; assured him that he always 
 would bo, as he liitherto had been, in the 
 place of a father to him ; and concluded 
 with saying — " Reflect seriously upon 
 what I have pointed out to you, my dear 
 boy ; I have laid before you, as far as my 
 experience goes, all the advaDtagcs and 
 disadvantages of the profession which you 
 wish to adopt ; weigh the matter carefully 
 in your thoughts ; and if, at the end of a 
 week, you continue in the same mind, I 
 will do ail in my power to promote your 
 wishes." 
 
 Poor Philip's astonishment and dis- 
 tress were unbounded, when Gavin inform- 
 ed him of the mystery that hung over bis 
 birth. He had always hitherto been known 
 by the name of Douglas, and had been 
 accustomed to consider himself as Gavin's 
 grandson ; and the truth burst upon with 
 the astounding effect of a thunderbolt. 
 Pale as ashes, with the tears streaming 
 down his cheeks, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Not your grandson, sir ? Then who 
 am I ? Good heavens ! have I been living 
 from my earliest years a poor dependant 
 upcn your bounty ? O my generous bene- 
 factor ! my more than father ! how can I 
 ever prove my gratitude to you for your i 
 imvaricd affection and kindness ?" 
 
 " You have already proved it Philip, 
 by repaying affection with affection ; by 
 your steady obedience, and constant at- 
 tention to my slightest wish. 1 have a 
 father's love for you, Philip ; and, poor, 
 and unknown, and alien as you are, 3'ou 
 have made yourself as dear to me as if you 
 were my own flcsb and blood. I feared 
 that this disclosure would fall like a blight 
 
 upon your young spirit ; but, painful as it 
 is, it vvas necessary that it should be made. 
 Cheer up, my boy ! brighter days will 
 come. I feel a conviction that the secret 
 of your birth will be one day discovered, 
 and that you will have no reason to blush 
 for your parentage." 
 
 '• Heaven grant it may be so, sir ! but 
 I dare not hope. If I had not been, a 
 cause of shame to my parents, would they 
 have deserted me .-" 
 
 Douglas shook his head, and said — 
 
 " Time will show. At all events, my 
 dear Philip, look upon me as your father 
 until you find a better." 
 
 " That can never be, my dear, dear 
 gr benefactor." 
 
 The week of reflection passed away ; 
 but not so Philip's resolution, which was 
 now confirmed and strengthened by his 
 eager desire to relieve Mr. Douglas from 
 the burden of his support, and by the 
 hope that he might by some fortunate 
 chance be guided to the discovery of his 
 true parents. On his making known his 
 decision, Gavin Douglas immediatelj^ 
 wrote to a friend in town, through whoso 
 interest he obtained for him an appoint- 
 ment as midshipman on board an Indiaman 
 which was on the point of sailing for Ben- 
 gal and China, and which it was necessary 
 for him to '' join" immediately. Before 
 he left Eskhall, Gavin delivered into his 
 hands the ring and other articles that had 
 been found in the basket in which he was 
 exposed when an infant, that he minht 
 have some clue whereby to endeavor to 
 trace out his parents. Delighted as Philip 
 was at the prospect of entering upon his 
 new profession, he felt the greatest sorrow 
 at parting from his kind and liberal bene- 
 factor, and from those whom he had been 
 so long accustomed to look upon as near 
 and dear relations ; but still more deeply 
 was he affected at leaving his beloved little 
 playmate, Catherine. Her grief on the 
 occasion was excessive. Philip had been 
 her constant companion in all her little 
 rambles, and her resource and comfort in 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 433 
 
 all her childish difficulties and sorrows. 
 He had scarcely ever left her side ; and 
 now she was to part with him — perhaps for 
 ever ! Poor Philip himself was obliged to 
 escrt all the pride of precocious manhood, 
 to resist the contagious example of her 
 tears ; but he did all in his power to com- 
 fort the little mourner, and at last partially 
 succeeded, by reminding her that in a few 
 months the voyage would be over. 
 
 " And then^ dear Phil, will you come 
 back again r" 
 
 " That I will." 
 
 " Oh ! how glad I shall be to see you 
 again ! And she jumped about, clapping 
 har little hands for joy, till the recollec- 
 tion of the long separation that must in- 
 tervene called forth a fresh torrent of 
 tears. 
 
 At length the parting scene was over ; 
 and, freighted with the blessings and good 
 wishes of all who knew him, Philip was 
 fairly launched into the rough ocean of 
 life, to be exposed to all its storms and 
 quicksands, from which he had been 
 hitherto safely sheltered in the calm haven 
 of domestic peace. The first voyage 
 passed safely and happily ; and some years 
 flew by in the same routine of leave-takings 
 and glad meetings. Philip loved his pro- 
 fession enthusiastically; but, at every 
 successive parting, he felt more and more 
 unwilling; to tear himself from Eskhall 
 and its beloved inmates. Catherine was now 
 a lovely, elegant girl of eighteen ; her child- 
 ish perference for Philip had been gradually 
 and imperceptibly gaining strength, till it 
 had become the ruling passion of her 
 heart. He loved her fondly and tenderly ; 
 but his fears were excited by her constant- 
 ly increasing reserve towards him ; there 
 was such apparent inconsistency between 
 the attentive kindness of her actions, and 
 the distance and almost coldness of her 
 manner, that ho was puzzled, as well as 
 surprised. But the eyes of Gavin Douglas' 
 experience were open ; and he had for 
 some time read — in the changing complex- 
 ion of Catherine, whenever Philip approach- 
 
 ed her, in the embarrassment of her man- 
 ner whenever she addressed him, and in 
 the suppressed eagerness of her interest 
 in whatever concerned him — that secret 
 which she shrunk from confessing even to 
 her own heart. Though he dreaded the 
 consequence of an attachment which he 
 thought might be productive of only mis- 
 ery and disappointment, yet he had too 
 much confidence in Philip's honor and 
 discretion to fear any clandestine avowal 
 of love on his part. He wrote to his son 
 Edward in Calcutta, informing him of his 
 suspicions and fears as to the state of 
 Catherine's affections — telling him all the 
 particulars of Philip's history, and leaving 
 it to his own judgment to act as he thought 
 circumstances required. 
 
 " In the meantime," wrote he, '' I can- 
 not openly interfere, lest, by striving to 
 remedy, I should only increase the evil ; 
 but I will endeavor, quietly and unobtru- 
 sively, to keep the 3'oung people apart 
 until I hear your decision. My opinion 
 is, that a final separation will be the only 
 means of weaning them from each other. 
 Catherine has a father's home to receive 
 her — when poor Philip leaves me he leaves 
 his only earthly protector ; and, even for 
 my granddaughter's sake, I cannot part 
 with one whose amiable and affectionate 
 dispositions have rendered him dear to me 
 as a son." 
 
 The result of this communication was a 
 letter to Catherine, from her father, tell- 
 ing her that he was obliged to visit Eno-- 
 land for a few months, on business, and 
 begging her to hold herself in readiness to 
 accompany him on his return to Calcutta. 
 Philip had just arrived from abroad when 
 he received this news ; and, as is often the 
 case, it was not till he feared he was goino- 
 to part with Catherine for ever, that he 
 felt how deeply and fondly he loved her. 
 He became restless and unhappy ; and 
 wandered away, day after day, alone, un- 
 der pretence of seeking amusement in 
 rural sports, but in reality for the sake of 
 indulging the sorrow that was preying 
 
 ff 
 
 VOL. ir. 
 
 65 
 
434 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 upon his mind. He shunned all society, 
 even that of her whose image was ever 
 present to him, and absented himself as 
 much as he possibly could, from the family 
 meetings at meals. His dejection began 
 to have an evident effect upon his health, 
 and the kind-hearted Gavin grieved to see 
 his young favorite pining under the in- 
 fluence of his hidden sorrow. 
 
 " Philip, my son," said he to him one 
 day, " why have you not confided in me, 
 your oldest and dearest friend ? I have 
 penetrated your secret, Philip, and I honor 
 you for endeavoring to confine it to your 
 own bosom ; but you must rouse all your 
 energies to shake off the tyranny of a 
 passion, which your high sense of princi- 
 ple must tell you cannot safely be indulged 
 in, and is only likely to be productive of 
 sorrow and disappointment.'' He then 
 proceeded to remind him delicately of the 
 cloud that hung over his birth, of his want 
 of means to maintain the woman of his 
 choice in comfort, and of the absolute 
 necessity for his strenuous exertions to rise 
 in his profession, as the only chance of 
 bettering his condition in life ; " for 
 though," added the generous man, " it is 
 my intention to make some provision for 
 you in my will, yet there are so many 
 claims of relationship upon me, that your 
 proportion will, I fear, be but small." 
 
 Philip's heart swelled, and his eye 
 glistened, as he pressed the old man's 
 hand, in mute acknowledgment of his 
 kindness ; and some moments elapsed ere 
 he could sufficiently command his feelings, 
 to give expression to them in words. At 
 length, in broken and hurried accents, he 
 expressed his heartfelt gratitude ; he con- 
 fessed that he had long loved Catherine, 
 but said that he had never " told his love," 
 hoping that his prospects might brighten, 
 and that he might then be enabled to 
 prove himself worthy of the happiness he 
 sought. He acknowledged the justice and 
 propriety of all Mr. Douglas had said ; 
 and expressed his conviction that it was 
 his duty, however painful it might be to 
 
 his feelings, to tear himself from the so- 
 ciety of one whose presence was so danger- 
 ous to his peace, and to endeavor, however 
 vain that endeavor might be, for her sake 
 as well as for his own, to conceal, though 
 he could not stifle, the passion which 
 reigned in his heart. It was agreed upon, 
 between the two friends, that Philip 
 should employ his time while on shore in 
 travelling, till his ship was again ready for 
 sea, and that he should then join her, 
 without taking leave a second time of his 
 friends, except by letter. Poor Philip 
 could hardly command his feelings, when 
 taking what he considered to be his final 
 farewell of Catherine. He knew that 
 when he next returned home, Eskhall 
 would have lost its principal charm in his 
 eyes — that she would no longer be there, 
 and that, in all human probability, they 
 might never meet again. Catherine only 
 felt, or appeared to feel, the uneasiness 
 attending a temporary parting ; but her 
 voice trembled slightly as, with a pale but 
 steady countenance, she bade him adieu ; 
 and leaving the room with a calm thouirh 
 melancholy manner, she hurried to her 
 chamber, and, securing the door, gave way 
 to the sorrow which in his presence she 
 had successfully endeavored to restrain. 
 Time passed slowly and heavily with Philip 
 durins; a ramblino; tour which he made 
 through different parts of England and 
 Wales. He fought manfully against the 
 sorrow that oppressed him, and endeavor- 
 ed, by rapidity of motion, and constant 
 variation of scene, to turn his thoughts 
 into another channel ; but in vain — the 
 arrow was fixed too deeply in his heart. 
 He hurried from place to place, and from 
 change to change ; but he could not fly 
 from himself. In vain did Nature present 
 varied beauties to his eyes ; he gazed list- 
 lessly and vacantly upon all he beheld — 
 he looked as though he saw not, for his 
 heart was elsewhere, and he felt that for 
 him the charm of existence was over. In 
 the meantime, Catherine's father had 
 arrived at Eskhall, and had been informed 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 435 
 
 by Gaviu Douglas of Philip's noble struggle 
 with his unfortunately placed passion, and 
 of the anguish of uiind which his resolu- 
 tion had cost him 
 
 " Generous young man !" exclaimed 
 Edward Douglas ; " he deserves a happier 
 fate. Would tliat I could favor his suit ; 
 but, poor, unknown, and perhaps basely 
 born as he is, it is my duty as a father to 
 oppose it." 
 
 Shortly before Philip's ship came afloat. 
 Edward Douirlas was oblio;ed to eo to 
 London on business ; and there he found 
 out, and introduced himsef to our young 
 friend. Few young men of his age pos- 
 sessed greater powers of pleasing than 
 Philip ; there was a frank ingenuousness 
 in his manner and address, which, second- 
 ed by his remarkable beauty of features, 
 immediately made a favorable impression 
 upon a stranger — an impression which a 
 further intimacy seldom failed to strength- 
 en into affection and esteem. Such was 
 the effect of his introduction to Edward 
 Douglas. They were mutually pleased 
 with each other, and every hour that Philip 
 could spare from professional duties, was 
 devoted to his new friends, rendered 
 doubly dear to him by his near connexion 
 with her whose name he dared not to men- 
 tion, though ever in his thouo-hts. 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Douglas to him 
 one day, " I am aware of the sacrifice you 
 have made of feeling to principle, and I 
 honor and esteem you for it. Would to 
 heaven your circumstances and my own 
 were different ! Situated as you are, with- 
 out the means of supporting even yourself, 
 I think I know you too well already to 
 imagine that you would willingly expose 
 her you love, to poverty and humiliation. 
 Were my circumstances such as to enable 
 me to enrich my daughter, and to follow the 
 inclinations of my own heart, I know no 
 one for whom I would more willingly use 
 a father's influence than yourself." 
 
 Philip's heart was too full for words ; 
 yet, though he felt the hardship, he ac- 
 knowledged the justice, of Edward Dou- 
 
 glas' objections, and felt greatly affected 
 by his kind expressions of friendly feeling 
 toward him. They parted with mutual 
 regret ; Edward to return to Eskhall, and 
 Philip to join his ship at Gravesend. 
 
 " Ah !" said Gavin Douglas, one morn- 
 ing, about a fortnight after the above 
 parting, as the family were seated round 
 the breakfast-table, " there is the post-bag ! 
 Bring it here, James" — (to the servant.) 
 " It looks too thin to contain anythino-, I 
 am afraid. Yes ! here is a letter from 
 dear Phil." 
 
 " When is he to return, grandfather ?" 
 asked Emma, now a full-grown woman. 
 Catherine was seized with a sudden curi- 
 osity to look at a pamphlet which lay 
 upon the table, and which she held very 
 close to her eyes. 
 
 "Return, my love!" said Gavin; 
 " when his voyage is over, I hope ; this 
 letter was sent on shore by the pilot, and 
 is dated ^ Off Scilly.' But, mercy upon 
 us ! what is the matter with Catherine .'" 
 
 The pamphlet had fallen from her hand ; 
 the cheek which had flushed to crimson at 
 the mention of Philip's name, was now of 
 death-like paleness ; and she was leaning 
 back in her chair, with her eyes closed, 
 and panting for breath. 
 
 " Thoughtless blockhead that I was !" 
 muttered Gavin Douglas. And he then 
 set himself to repair the mischief he had 
 done, by bustling about to procure the 
 necessary remedies, which at last succeed- 
 ed in restoring Catherine to conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 " It was a sudden spasm," said she ; 
 " I shall soon recover from it.'' 
 
 " Poor girl !" thought Gavin, " I fear 
 not ; the evil is more deeply rooted than 
 I imagined." 
 
 From this period, Catherine became 
 quite an altered character. A settled 
 melancholy seemed to weigh upon her 
 heart ; she was mild, gentle, and affection- 
 ate as ever, but the buoyancy of her spirit 
 was gone, and the smile which now but 
 seldom brightened her countenance, was 
 
436 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 evidently but grief in disguise. Her 
 friends, with delicate consideration, avoid- 
 ed all allusion to the cause of her sorrow, 
 which was but too well known to them all ; 
 and her fond and grieving father hoped 
 that time, and absence, and the novel 
 scenes she was about to enter into, might 
 work, imperceptibly to herself, a gradual 
 cure. 
 
 Nearly nine months had elapsed since 
 Philip's departure ; Catherine, half bro- 
 ken-hearted, had accompanied her father 
 on shipboard, and was far on her way to 
 the East ; and the Recovery, Philip's 
 ship, was on her homeward voyage. One 
 fine ni^ht in March, the Recovery was 
 running along the Lagullas Bank, taking 
 the advantage of the current which sweeps 
 round the Cape of Good Hope to the 
 eastward. The wind was light, but steady 
 from the S.E., and the night cloudy, when 
 the look-out man on the forecastle called 
 out — " A light on the larboard bow, sir !" 
 A small glimmering light was seen on the 
 horizon to windward, which gradually en- 
 larged to a broad flame, wavering and 
 flickering in the breeze ; and, almost im- 
 mediately, the dull sound of a gun came 
 faintly moaning over the waters, and a 
 long train of arrowy light went rushing up 
 into the sky, where it hung for a moment, 
 and then burst into separate flashes, which 
 gradually died away, as they descended. 
 The officer of the deck ran to the captain 
 immediately — " I am afraid, sir, there is 
 a ship on fire to the windward. There is 
 a strong light on our weather beam, and I 
 heard the report of a gun, and saw the 
 flash of a rocket." 
 
 " Indeed ! Tell the gunner to clear 
 away one of the guns. Call the hands 
 out. I will be out in a minute." 
 
 The light in the meantime, was gradu- 
 ally increasing in size, and it was evident, 
 from the wavering outline which it present- 
 ed, that the first conjecture respecting its 
 origin was a correct one ; and gun after 
 gun confirmed it. The captain speedily 
 made his appearance on deck, and, after a 
 
 moment's glance to windward, called to 
 the chief mate. " Run the stunsails 
 in, Mr. Waring I Brace sharp up, and 
 bring the ship to the wind ! Are you all 
 ready with that gun, Mr. Wad .''' 
 " All ready, sir !" 
 
 " Then, fire ! Bear a hand, clear awa}'- 
 another gun !" 
 
 The Recovery was now hauled close to 
 the wind, and was slipping rapidly through 
 the water in the direction of the light ; 
 all hands were on deck, and, after the 
 bustle of taking in and stowing the stud- 
 dingsails had subsided, the eyes of all were 
 directed with the greatest anxiety towards 
 the horizon on the weather bow, where the 
 flame was now distinctly seen, sometimes 
 barely visible above the water, and then 
 bursting upward in broad and vivid jets, 
 waving fitfully in the breeze. All at once 
 it disappeared, and half suppressed iiiur- 
 murs and ejaculations burst from the ex- 
 cited crew of the Recovery. 
 
 "I fear we are too late, sir!" said 
 Waring, the mate ; " the light has disap- 
 peared." 
 
 " Very strange !'' replied the captain, 
 straining his eyes through the night-glass. 
 " I hope not ! Oh, no ! I see how it is : 
 don't you observe that the red fiery haze 
 still hangs round the spot .' — and hark ' 
 there is another gun ! She is on fire abaft, 
 and is running down before the wind. She 
 has heard our signals. Fire another 
 !" 
 The vessel to windward still continued 
 firing minute guns, by the louder report of 
 which it was evident she was rapidly ap- 
 proaching ; and, in a short time, the dark 
 mass of her canvass was distinctly visible, 
 standing out in bold relief from its fiery 
 back-ground. 
 
 " Have the quarter cutters clear for 
 lowering, Mr. Waring," said the captain. 
 " Away aloft there, topmen ; send down 
 whips for the yard tackles, and have the 
 large cutter all clear for tossing out." 
 
 These orders were instantly and actively 
 obeyed ; the crew seemed to vie with each 
 
 gun 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 437 
 
 other in tlieir exertions, and strained every 
 nerve in their eager emulation. They 
 could now clearly discern the dark hull of 
 the ship, the sails forward hiding the body 
 of the flame, broad masses of which were 
 seen, with every roll she took, flaring out 
 from each side, alternately, of the dark 
 screen of canvass. 
 
 " Man the gear of the courses ! — up 
 courses ! — in royals and topgallantsails ! — 
 back the mainyard!" — were the orders 
 which now rapidly succeeded each other ; 
 and, in a few moments, the Recovery lay 
 as motionless as a log on the water. 
 
 *' Call the hands — out boats !" 
 
 The large cutter was quickly hoisted 
 out, the quarter-boats were lowered and 
 manned, and kept alongside, in readiness 
 to push off at a moment's warning. The 
 burning ship was rapidly approaching, and 
 was now within two miles of the Recovery. 
 
 '' Fire a gun to windward, and burn a 
 blue light," exclaimed the Captain ; " she 
 is quite near enough." 
 
 The stranger now came slowly and gra- 
 dually up to the wind, and hove-to, with 
 her maintopsail to the mast, about a mile 
 a-head, and to windward of the Recovery. 
 An involuntary shout of horror and ad- 
 miration burst from the crew of that ship, 
 when the changed position of the stranger 
 revealed to them the terrific extent of her 
 danger — of horror for the imminent peril 
 of her crew, and of irrepressible admira- 
 tion of the splendid scene so suddenly 
 unveiled to them. Broad masses of flame 
 were bursting apparently from her gun- 
 room, and waving over her quarter ; while 
 thick clouds of smoke, glittering with 
 sparks, shot upwards, and were borne far 
 off to leeward by the breeze. Every rope 
 in the ship was as distinctly traceable by 
 the glare of the flame, as if it had been 
 broad daylight. Her mainsail was hauled 
 close up ; and her crew, seeming to have 
 been aware that their only chance of res- 
 cue was in flight, had been actively em- 
 ployed in keeping her hoadsails wet with 
 streams of water from the fire-engine, for 
 
 it was very evident that no earthly power 
 could check the progress of the flames 
 abaft. 
 
 The dark forms of the crew were seen 
 hurrying about her decks, apparently em- 
 ployed in clearing away the boats, one of 
 which soon pushed off from her, loaded 
 till her gunnels were within a few inches 
 of the water, and pulled slowly towards 
 them. 
 
 " Shove off in the boats," shouted the 
 captain of the Recovery, " and give way, 
 my hearties, with a will." 
 
 There was not a moment to lose : a 
 spark caught the maintopsail ; the can- 
 vass, as dry as tinder with the excessive 
 heat, was in a blaze in a moment ; and, 
 with lightning-like rapidity, sail after sail 
 on the mainmast caught fire, and, blazing 
 for a moment with a broad and brilliant 
 glare, shrivelled up, and flew in burning 
 tatters to leeward. It was an awful sight, 
 that pyramid of flame, rising as it were 
 from the bosom of the deep. Not a sound 
 was to be heard, but that of the rapidly- 
 moving oars, and the rushing, moaning, 
 and crackling sound of the flame. The 
 men tugged at their oars in the silence of 
 desperate energy ; life and death depended 
 upon their exertions, and their voices 
 seemed to be hushed by the extremity of 
 the danger. In the meantime, sail was 
 made upon the Recovery, and the breeze 
 having partially died away, she crawled 
 slowly up on the weather-quarter of the 
 stranger, and again hove-to. Boat after 
 boat soon joined her, and, having deposited 
 their freight, hastened back to the scene 
 of danger for more. The greater part of 
 the crew of the burning ship were soon 
 safely bestowed on board of the Recovery, 
 when Philip, who had already made two 
 trips to the stranger with the boat under 
 his command, pulled towards her again, to 
 bring off the remainder of her men. He 
 was fast approaching her when he was 
 hailed by the officer of one of the other 
 boats, who told him that he had taken off 
 the last of the crew. He was just on the 
 
438 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 point of returning to his ship, when he 
 heard sounds of remonstrance and entreaty 
 from another boat which was slowly ap- 
 proaching, the crew seeming undecided 
 whether to proceed or return ; and, at the 
 same time, he observed by the light of the 
 fire the ofiicer of the boat struggling with 
 a man in the stern-sheets, who was appa- 
 rently endeavoring to jump overboard. 
 
 *' It would be madness, downright mad- 
 ness to return," exclaimed the officer; ^' I 
 will not risk the lives of my men — she will 
 blow up immediately." 
 
 " Let me go !" shouted the stranger ; 
 " if I cannot save her, let me die with 
 her." At this moment the stranger's eye 
 caught sight of Philip, who was standing 
 up in the boat, and, with a loud and start- 
 ling cry, he shouted, " Philip, Philip, save 
 her! Save Catharine !" It was Edward 
 Douglas ! At the same time a shrill 
 scream came over the water, and a female 
 form was seen at the gangway, waving her 
 hands over her head, and wringing them 
 in all the anguish of despair. For a mo- 
 ment Philip was paralyzed ; it was but for 
 a moment. 
 
 " We will save her or perish !" shouted 
 he; "what say you, my lads.?" The 
 men answered him with a cheer as the boat 
 sprung through the water under the im- 
 pulse of their bending oars ; and a few 
 vigorous strokes brought them alongside 
 the blazing ship. It was but the work of 
 a moment, for Philip and one of the boat's 
 crew to spring np the ship's side, and to 
 lower the fainting Catherine into the arms 
 of the men below. With careful haste 
 she was laid down in the stern-sheets, and 
 the water foamed beneath the bows of the 
 boat as her gallant crew bent desperately 
 to their oars. A handful of water sprink- 
 led on Catharine's face revived her for a 
 moment ; she opened her eyes upon her 
 deliverer, and, murmuring "Philip!" 
 closed them again with a shudder, and re- 
 lapsed into unconsciousness. The moment 
 the boat reached the Recovery, the ship's 
 mainyard was filled, the lower tacks were 
 
 hauled on board, the small sails set, and 
 she stood to windward, to widen her dis- 
 tance. The precaution, however, was 
 scarcely necessary, as the blazing wreck 
 was drifting fast to leeward. Almost im- 
 mediately after the boat had left her, she 
 had paid off before the wind, the sails on 
 the foremast caught fire, and in a very 
 short time the blazing wreck of spars fell 
 forward over the bows. All eyes were 
 now eagerly directed towards her, to 
 watch the finale of the catastrophe. They 
 were not kept long in suspense : a dense 
 cloud of smoke burst from the fore-hatch- 
 way, followed by a rush of bright flame, 
 and a loud and deafening explosion, and 
 then all was darkness — the hull had dis- 
 appeared, and not a vestige of the unfor- 
 tunate vessel remained, except the frag- 
 ments of the wreck, which fell far and 
 wide, pattering and hissing in the water. 
 
 It was with a feeling of breathless awe 
 and silent thanksgiving that the rescued 
 crew gazed upon the scene ; and many a 
 cheek among- them was blanched with 
 shudderinjr horror at the thought of the 
 miserable fate they had so providentially 
 and narrowly escaped. The most daring 
 and reckless among them were sobered for 
 a time, and many a half-suppressed ex- 
 pression of thankfulness to an overruling 
 Providence, burst from lips to which oaths 
 and curses had been but too familiar. As 
 soon as all was over, sail was made on the 
 Recovery, the watch was called out, and 
 arrangements were made for the accom- 
 modation of the unexpected addition to 
 her crew. The name of the unfortunate 
 ship was the Victory — a fine vessel of six 
 hundred tons. The fire had been occa- 
 sioned by the negligence of the steward, 
 who, while unpacking a case of wine, had 
 left a light burning in the after orlop, 
 which had set fire to the loose straw, from 
 whence the flame was soon communicated 
 to the spirit-room. 
 
 " All that men could do, we did," said 
 the captain, when telling the story ; " but, 
 from the first, I had no hope of saving the 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 439 
 
 ship, and slight was our chance of escape 
 in the boats. When the sound of your 
 gun reached us, it was as a messenger of 
 hope — a promisa of rescue ; and three 
 cheers burst from our crew, as we put our 
 helm up, and stood away to join you. My 
 men behaved nobly ; with death staring 
 them in the face, they never for a moment 
 failed in their duty, or flinched from the 
 danger, and exerted themselves to the ut- 
 most to keep the fire under, and to pre- 
 vent its communicating to the sails. — 
 Thanks to a merciful Providence, and to 
 you, its gallant agents, we have been res- 
 cued from a dreadful doom !" 
 
 In the meantime, our friend Philip had 
 hastened to the cabin which had been ap- 
 propriated to Edward Douglas, and, 
 knocking at the door, was immediately 
 admitted, 
 
 " Philip !" exclaimed Edward, grasp- 
 ing his hand, while the tears stood in his 
 eyes, and his voice trembled with emo- 
 tion ; " my dear, my gallant deliverer ! — 
 what an awful fate have you saved us 
 from ! If I had lost my child, how value- 
 less would have been my own preservation ! 
 To you, under Heaven, I owe both : how 
 can I express my gratitude .'"' 
 
 " Oh, speak not thus to me, dear sir ; 
 — I but did my duty, and am I not al- 
 ready more than repaid ? But how is 
 Miss Douglas ?" 
 
 " Miss Douglas !" said Edward ; " cold 
 and formal indeed ! Why not Catherine ? 
 — your Catherine ? Have you not earned 
 a right to call her yours .?'' 
 
 Philip trembled, and turned pale ; and 
 then, when the warm blood, rushing to his 
 cheeks again, flushed them with emotion, 
 he exclaimed — 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Douglas ! My v/hole eflbrts, 
 since we parted, have been to smother 
 feelings and wishes which your words have 
 ajjain called into life." 
 
 " And long may they live, my dear 
 Philip ! — my dear son I hope soon to call 
 you. I will no longer strive against fate. 
 You have saved Catherine's life ; and, if 
 
 you still retain her love, you have a grate- 
 ful father's full and free permission to 
 avail yourself of it. For the rest, we will 
 trust to Providence, and to the exertions 
 of your own active and energetic spirit." 
 
 " Mr. Douglas," said Philip, " your 
 kindness overpowers me. I would risk a 
 thousand lives, if I had them, for such a 
 recompense ; but I must not take advan- 
 tage of your excited feelings to obtain a 
 boon, however dear to me, which your 
 prudence would deny. The same obsta- 
 cles remain which at first existed. I am 
 still poor and friendless ; the obscurity of 
 my birth has not been cleared up ; and, 
 circumstanced as I am at present, ought I 
 to avail myself of an accidental advantage, 
 and of your too generous appreciation of 
 it, to fetter the free choice of your daugh- 
 ter, who probably may now see those ob- 
 stacles with far difierent eyes than in her 
 early days .'" 
 
 " Better times may come, Philip ; and, 
 in the meanwhile, my daughter's dowry 
 will be sufiicient to afford you both all the 
 comforts, though not the luxuries of life ; 
 your own energy and industry must do the 
 rest. But you must consult Catherine on 
 the subject — gain her consent ; mine you 
 have, without further condition, already." 
 
 After a consultation with his officers, 
 the captain of the Recovery deemed it 
 expedient to put into the Cape ; and the 
 ship's course was accordingly altered. 
 The wind continuing fair and steady, on 
 the evening of the fourth day from the 
 disaster she was close in with the coast ; 
 and the breeze dying away, and a thick 
 fog coming on, she was hove to for the 
 nio-ht. The next morning the fos still 
 continued — nothing was to be seen of the 
 land, though every eye was strained to 
 penetrate the gloom, till at last the glad 
 cry was heard from the mast-head — " High 
 land ahead, sir ! Close aboard of us !" 
 All e}*es were now turned upwards ; and 
 there, frowning above the bank of fog, 
 appeared the dark outline of the Table- 
 land. The fog soon cleared off; and, in 
 
440 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 an hour or two, the ship rounded Green 
 Point, and came to an anchor in Table 
 Bay. After Edward Douglas and the rest 
 of the passengers were landed at Cape 
 Town, Philip, being second officer and 
 idler, obtained leave of absence for a 
 couple of days, and went on shore to join 
 his friends. The boarding-houses were all 
 crowded ; for there were several ships in 
 the roads, one of which, full of passengers 
 from Bengal, had arrived the day after the 
 Recovery ; but Edward Douglas had con- 
 trived to secure accommodation for Philip 
 in the same house with himself. Several 
 passengers by the newly arrived ship, had 
 taken up their quarters there ; and, among 
 them, a fine-looking, elderly man, a Ge- 
 neral Fortescue of the Bengal army. This 
 gentleman happened, on his first arrival, 
 to be shown into the room where Philip 
 and Edward Douglas were conversing to- 
 gether. They both rose at his entrance, 
 and he returned the salutation of the lat- 
 ter with the free and unembarrassed air 
 of a man of the world ; but, when he 
 turned to Philip, he started, and gazed at 
 him, for some moments, with a look so 
 fixed and earnest as to call the color into 
 his cheek. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir,*' said he, at length — 
 " excuse my involuntary rudeness. Your 
 features awakened recollections of other 
 times, and of long-lost and dearly-loved 
 friends ; and, for the moment, my thoughts 
 wandered into forgetfulness of the courtesy 
 due to a stranger." 
 
 " I hope, at least, sir, that the recol- 
 lections I recalled were not unpleasing 
 ones ?"' 
 
 " When you have lived to my age, 
 young sir, bitter experience will have 
 taught you that the ' thread of life is wo- 
 ven of mingled yarn ;' and that shades of 
 sorrow and disappointment may darken 
 the brightest pictures in memory's retro- 
 spect. Few, very few, can look back to 
 the past years of life with unraingled plea- 
 sure, or forward to the future with un- 
 mixed hope." 
 
 Both Edward Douglas and Philip 
 became greatly interested in this new i 
 acquaintance, especially the latter who in ■ 
 turn seemed to be the object of the Ge- 
 neral's almost exclusive attention. He ; 
 seemed to watch Philip's every movement ' 
 with eager interest, often cast upon him j 
 earnest and inquiring looks, and would ; 
 then, with a heavy sigh, withdraw his gaze, 
 as if his features had recalled some faint , 
 and shadowy image of the past, which his 
 memory was in vain endeavoring to realize. } 
 A party was formed to visit the far-famed 
 farm of Constantia, on which the well- 
 known choice wine of that name is manu- 
 factured ; and the three friends set off 
 together on horseback, after breakfast, 
 next morning. General Fortescue, not- 
 withstanding the habitual shade of melan- 
 choly which clouded his countenance, 
 proved himself to be an animated and most 
 agreeable companion. His mind was 
 stored with varied knowledge, and his con- 
 versation was enlivened with anecdotes of 
 events and characters which had come 
 under the personal observation of a keen 
 and penetrating mind, 
 
 " I know not how it is, Mr. Douglas," 
 said he, " but I have not felt for years 
 such a springiness of spirit as I experience 
 to-day. I suppose it is because this beau- 
 ful country recalls to my recollection our 
 own dear England. Suppose we dismount, 
 and ramble for a while among the trees ; 
 with our feet upon the soft grass, and 
 under the cooling shade, our recollections 
 of our distant home, and reminiscences of 
 past years, will return with greater warmth 
 and freshness." 
 
 This proposal was gladly acceded to by 
 his companions ; and, having given their 
 horses to the care of their attendant, they 
 wandered about for some time, and at last 
 finding a grassy spot sheltered from the 
 rays of the sun, they seated themselves, 
 and entered into an animated and cheer- 
 ful conversation. 
 
 '•- Pray, Mr. Douglas," said General 
 Fortescue, addressing himiself to Philip, 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 441 
 
 " is your father a Scotchman ? I should 
 think so from the name." 
 
 Philip colored painfully ; and the 
 General, perceiving his confusion, added, 
 " Excuse the liberty I have taken in ask- 
 ing the question — it did not arise from 
 idle curiosity. The dearest friend of my 
 early days was a Douglas, and the name 
 is connected in my remembrance with 
 scenes in which I spent many of my hap- 
 piest days, when hope gilded my visions 
 of the future, alas ! only to deceive me. 
 Yes, if Gavin Douglas still survives, I 
 must find him out." 
 
 Gavin Douglas !" said Edward, in 
 
 surprise ; " was he a Douglas of Esk- 
 hall .?" 
 
 " The same," replied he. 
 
 '' My father !" said Edward. 
 
 "Is it possible ! And are you really 
 the son of my dearest and earliest friend ? 
 Wonderful are the mysterious sympathies 
 of nature ! How strangely was I attract- 
 ed towards you both, but more especially 
 towards your friend, whom I presume to 
 be your younger brother .''" 
 
 " No, he is not even a connexion, 
 though I hope he soon will be one." 
 
 *' Then whose son is he .?" 
 
 Philip, with cheeks glowing, and eyes 
 flashing with vainly resisted emotion, 
 answered, in rapid and passionate ac- 
 cents — 
 
 " The son of one who was ashamed to 
 own him ; who deserted him in his infancy, 
 and cast him shelterless upon the casual 
 bounty of strangers ; the nameless son of 
 a nameless father ; perhaps " — and his 
 eye fell, and his voice trembled — " the 
 offspring of shame, as of misfortune." 
 
 " Never, Philip !" said Edward ; ^' the 
 pure stream rises from the pure spring. 
 Whoever your father may be, were he 
 the hio-hest in the land, did he know his 
 son, he would be proud, not ashamed, to 
 own him as such. But, as we have ex- 
 cited the General's curiosity, have you 
 any objection to my gratifying it by re- 
 citing the history of your life .^" 
 
 Philip made a movement of assent ; 
 and Edward proceeded to give a rapid 
 sketch of the events which we have al- 
 ready narrated, from the time of Philip's 
 desertion down to liis gallant conduct on 
 board the Recovery. 
 
 The General had listened to his narra- 
 tive with breathless interest ; and, when 
 it was concluded, asked, in a hurried and 
 agitated manner — 
 
 " Was there no clue by which to trace 
 his parentage r No writing, or other 
 notice of his birth V 
 
 " Yes— a paper, stating his name to be 
 Philip, and that he was born of good fa- 
 mily ; and a ring." 
 
 " Here it is," said Philip, producing it. 
 The moment the General's eyes glanced 
 upon it, his cheek turned deadly pale, he 
 leaned for a moment backward against a 
 tree, and then, with an eager and trem- 
 bling hand, he touched a spring at the 
 back of the seal^ and the shield flying open 
 the initials " P. & M. F." appeared en- 
 graved behind. 
 
 " My son !" exclaimed the General, em- 
 bracing Philip, while the tears poured down 
 his cheeks—" my long-lost Philip ! Mer- 
 ciful heaven ! I thank thee ! How blind 
 I was, not to trace before, the resemblance 
 to your sainted mother ! The very eyes 
 and forehead of my beloved Mary ! My 
 son, my son ! This hour repays me for 
 years saddened by the misery of uncer- 
 tainty !" 
 
 Philip, with tears of grateful joy, warm- 
 ly returned the embraces of his newly- 
 found parent, and, even in that moment 
 of agitation, his thoughts gladly reverted I 
 I to the removal of that which had been the I 
 principal obstacle to Catherine, the mys- 
 tery of his birth. Edward Douglas, much | 
 aff"ected by the unexpected recognition, 
 had retired to some little distance, to leave 
 the father and son to the free expression 
 of their mutual feelings ; but he was soon 
 recalled to his former station by the Gene- 
 ral, who, shaking him heartily by the hand, 
 said — 
 
442 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Son of my dearest friend, 1 owe it to 
 myself and to my boy to narrate to you 
 the history of my past life, and to ac- 
 count to you both, for what must appear 
 my culpable and unpardonable neglect of 
 him whose uncertain fate has caused me 
 so many bitter moments." 
 
 The tale which followed we give in our 
 own words, as our space will not allow us 
 to be so diifuse as was the excited narrator. 
 
 The father of General Fortescue was a 
 man of high family and extensive landed 
 property in Ireland ; proud of his only 
 son, but prouder still of the ancient name 
 and large possessions which he fondly 
 hoped that son was destined to inherit. 
 His mother had died in his early child- 
 hood, and his education was prosecuted 
 under the superintendence of a worthy 
 and excellent tutor, a Scotchman of the 
 name of Campbell. The elder Fortescue, 
 who had himself been brought up at Eton, 
 and who had a strong prejudice in favor of 
 public education, sent his boy, when he 
 was sufficiently old, to finish his educa- 
 tion at that college. There it was his 
 good fortune to be associated with Gavin 
 Douglas, who was two years his senior, 
 and immeasurably his superior in talent 
 and character. Mild and gentle in de- 
 meanor, but firm and uncompromising in 
 principle, Gavin was generally respected 
 and beloved ; his society was courted by 
 all his fellow-students — but he distinguish- 
 ed young Fortescue with his particular 
 friendship ; and to the influence of that 
 friendship, the latter was indebted for all 
 the better traits that adorned his charac- 
 ter. PhiUp, in his letters, had often writ- 
 ten in the most glowing terms of youthful 
 .enthusiasm, of his talented and estimable 
 friend ; and his father, ever anxious to 
 administer to his gratification, invited 
 Gavin, whose parents were at the time on 
 the Continent, to spend his vacation at 
 Mount Fortescue, where he spent some 
 weeks, delighted with his hospitable recep- 
 tion, but surprised at the luxury and pro- 
 fusion that surrounded him. But the 
 
 • and, with 
 saved from 
 
 scene was soon to change. Fortescue 
 had been for years living in a style of 
 splendid and careless hospitality, which 
 had from time to time called forth ineffec- 
 tual remonstrances from his faithful stew- 
 ard, and at last, affairs were brought to a 
 crisis by the villuny of one for whom he 
 had become security to a very consider- 
 able amount. To meet the demands of his 
 creditors, his estates were sold 
 about ten thousand pounds 
 their wreck, he retired to a small town on 
 the shores of the Frith of Clyde, and, 
 having procured a cadetship for his boy, 
 sent him out to Bengal. This was a se- 
 vere trial to old Fortescue. The loss of 
 his estates he could have borne with com- 
 parative firmness, as far as his own com- 
 forts were concerned ; but his pride as 
 well as his affection was wounded, when 
 he thought that his son would be obliged 
 to seek in a foreign land that fortune, 
 which, but for his careless negligence and 
 profusion, he would have inherited in his 
 own. Philip, full of the energy of youth- 
 ful hope, was but little affected by the 
 ehano-e in his father's circumstances, for 
 the future was to him bright of promise \ 
 but he was greatly grieved at parting with 
 his father, whose many excellent qualities 
 had endeared him to his son's affection, 
 and whose chief weakness was his high aris- 
 tocratic pride. After ten years' residence 
 in India, young Fortescue returned home 
 on furlough, with the rank of Captain, and 
 found his father much altered in person, 
 but equally unchanged in affection towards 
 him, and in that pride of birth which had 
 ever been his besetting sin — one of the 
 fruits of which was, frequent invectives 
 ao-ainst ill-assorted marviao;es between 
 those whose rank in life was unequal. 
 After staying with his father for a short 
 time. Captain Fortescue hastened to pay 
 a long promised visit to his friend Gavin 
 Douglas, whose wife had lately died, and 
 who was now living with his family at Esk- 
 hall. On his return, Gavin accompanied 
 him, and remained for several weeks at 
 
THE RESTORED SON. 
 
 443 
 
 Mr. Fortescue's. During one of their 
 rambles in tlie neighborhood, they dis- 
 covered, accidentally, that a daughter of 
 Mr. Campbell, Fortescue's former tutor, 
 was living near them, under the protection 
 of a maternal aunt. The young men soon 
 sought and obtained an introduction to 
 these ladies, by whom they were most 
 cordially received, as friends of the de- 
 parted Campbell. Mary Campbell was a 
 beautiful, highly-accomplished girl of 
 eighteen, perfectly natural and unaffected, 
 and unconscious of the power of her 
 charms. Not so young Fortescue. In 
 vain did his more quick-sighted and pru- 
 dent friend, Douglas, warn him of his 
 danger ; in vain did he remind him of the 
 obstacle which his father's pride would 
 offer to the prosperous indulgence of his 
 growing passion : he renewed his visits 
 day after day ; and, though he had not 
 spoken of love, his heart was no longer 
 his own. She who was ever present to 
 his thoughts, became naturally the fre- 
 quent theme of his conversation, until his 
 father remarked it, and scornfully and bit- 
 terly taunted him with his love for one so 
 much his inferior in rank. 
 
 " Think no more of her, Philip," said 
 he ; " for with my consent, you shall 
 never degrade yourself by marrying one 
 so much beneath you." 
 
 It was easier, however, for the father to 
 command than for the son to obey ; love 
 prevailed over duty, and the young people 
 were privately married ; the only persons 
 in the secret being the minister who offi- 
 ciated, and Mrs. Morgan, Mary's mater- 
 nal aunt. When the time of Mary's con- 
 finement approached, she removed with 
 her aunt to an obscure villao;e in a distant 
 part of the country, where she died in 
 giving birth to the hero of our tale. Her 
 husband was inconsolable, and it was some 
 time before he could bear to look upon the 
 innocent cause of his bereavement. After 
 performing the last duties to his wife, and 
 witnessing the baptism of the infant, 
 Philip, whom he left under the care of his 
 
 grand-aunt, Captain Fortescue went over 
 to the continent, hoping by travel to dis- 
 sipate his grief. For a few months he 
 heard regularly of his boy's welfare from 
 Mrs. Morgan; but soon her correspon- 
 dence ceased : and, alarmed by her long- 
 continued silence, he hastened home, to 
 ascertain the cause. On his arrival in 
 Scotland, he heard of the sudden and 
 dangerous illness of his father. H* just 
 reached home in time to attend his death- 
 bed ; and, by his unexpected return and 
 filial affections, cheered his last moments, 
 and received his dying blessing. But an- 
 other trial awaited him. He set off as soon as 
 possible to the village where Mrs. Morgan 
 resided, little dreaming of the sad intelli- 
 gence that awaited him. She had died 
 about six weeks before, bequeathing all 
 her small property to little Philip, who 
 had always been considered as her adopt- 
 ed son, and the orphan child of a distant 
 relation. The morning after her decease, 
 it was discovered that the nurse and child 
 were missing, and that an escritoire, which 
 was known to have contained a large sum 
 of money, had been broken open and ran- 
 sacked. Active search had been imme- 
 diately made after them at first ; but was 
 discontinued when a woman's bonnet, 
 known to have belonged to the nurse, and 
 part of a child's dress, were found on the 
 banks of a neighboring swollen stream. 
 Poor Fortescue was in despair ; but at 
 length a gleam of hope broke upon him. 
 The bodies had not been found ; and his 
 child might still be in existenc-e. Adver- 
 tisements were inserted in all the papers, 
 offering a large reward for the discovery 
 of the infant ; but in vain. The heart- 
 broken father lost all hope ; and, settling 
 his affairs, hastened again to the East. As 
 is too often the case. Fortune smiled up- 
 on one who had ceased to value her fa- 
 vors ; and he rose steadily and gradually 
 to the highest grades of his profession. 
 The object of envy to others, he was 
 miserable in himself. His thouo^hts 
 brooded over the past ; and, at last, after 
 
444 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 nearly a thirty years' residence abroad, 
 his heart yearned to revisit before his 
 death the scene of his past joys and sor- 
 rows ; and he was thus far on his voyage 
 when Providence threw in his way his long- 
 lost son. 
 
 When the General had finished his 
 narrative, the day was too far advanced, 
 and the feelings of the party were too 
 much interested otherwise, to allow them 
 to prosecute their intended visit to Con- 
 stantia ; they therefore returned to Cape 
 Town, where Catherine was anxiously 
 expecting their return. 
 
 " Catherine, my love," said her father, 
 " I expect a friend to visit me almost 
 immediately. He is a young man of 
 wealth and rank ; and I beg you will give 
 him a cordial welcome, as you must look 
 upon him as your future husband, and 
 think no more of Philip Douglas." 
 
 " Sir !'' said she, with the color fading 
 in her cheek ; " forget Philip ! Never !" 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and 
 a servant announced, " Mr Fortescue." 
 Great was Catherine's surprise, when she 
 raised her eyes, and beheld Philip. 
 
 '' Philip !" exclaimed she ; then, look- 
 ing timidly and inquiringly around, she 
 added—" But where is Mr. Fortescue ?" 
 
 " Here he stands, my dear Catherine ; 
 no longer the foundling Philip Douglas, 
 but Philip Fortescue, the son of one whom 
 he is proud to call father. Next to the 
 joy of discovering him^ is that of findino- 
 that you have bestowed your love on one 
 whose birth will cast no discredit upon 
 yours." 
 
 " The heart acknowledges no distinc- 
 tions of rank or fortune," replied she, 
 blushins!: ; " whether Douglas or Fortes- 
 cue, you would still be my own dear Philip 
 — the friend of my childhood — the pre- 
 server of my life." 
 
 " Nobly spoken, my fair younor friend," 
 said General Fortescue, who had entered 
 unperceived. " Although I am not yet 
 your father, allow me to claim a father's 
 privilege." And he fondly kissed the 
 blushino; Catherine. 
 
 But we must hasten to the conclusion 
 of our voyage, and of our tale. The fol- 
 lowing announcement appeared two months 
 afterwards in the papers — " Married, at 
 Eskhall, in Dumfriesshire, on the 13th 
 inst., Philip, eldest son of General Fortes- 
 cue of the Bengal army, to Catherine, 
 daughter of Edward Douglas, Esq., of 
 Calcutta," 
 
 THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 A:bout the middle of last century, and 
 previous to it, the truly national trade of 
 carrying the pack was, as doubtless many 
 •of our readers know, both much more gene- 
 ral and respectable than it now is. It did 
 not then, by any means, occupy the low 
 place in the scale of traffic to which modern 
 pride, and perhaps modern improvement, 
 have reduced it. At the period to which 
 we allude, those engaged in this trade 
 
 were, for the most part, men of good sub- 
 stance and of unimpeachable character ; 
 trustworthy, and, in their humble sphere, 
 highly respectable — circumstances which, 
 doubtless, imparted to their calling the 
 consideration which it then enjoyed. The 
 reason lies on the surface ; the trade was 
 then both a more extensive and a more 
 important one than it is now, and required 
 a much greater capital ; for there being 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 445 
 
 then none of those rapid and commodious 
 conveyances for transporting merchandize 
 from place to place which are now every- 
 where to be met with, the greater part of 
 this business was then done by the pack- 
 men, who combined the two characters 
 of merchants and carriers ; and in this 
 double capacity supplied many of the shops 
 of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and other large 
 towns, with English manufactures. Those 
 therefore, who would conceive of the 
 packman of old, an indifferently-clad and 
 equivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden 
 box on his back, and containing his whole 
 stock, would form a very erroneous idea 
 of the peripatetic merchant. Their con- 
 ception would not, in truth, represent the 
 man at all. The packman of yore kept 
 two or three horses, and these he loaded 
 with his merchandize, to the value often 
 of several thousand pounds ; and thus he 
 perambulated the country, passing between 
 Scotland and England, conveying the 
 goods of the one to the other ; and thus 
 maintaining the commercial intercourse 
 of the two kingdoms. 
 
 About the year 1746, this trade had ar- 
 rived at so great a height, that the high 
 road to England by Gretna Green was 
 thronged with those engaged in it, going 
 to and returning from the sister kingdom 
 with their loaded ponies ; and a merry and 
 bustling time of it they kept at the Flosh- 
 end Inn. This hostelry, now extinct, 
 was long a favorite resort of these pack- 
 men, or pack-carriers, as they were more 
 generally or more properly called. It 
 was situated on the Scotch side of the 
 Borders, near to Gretna Green, and was 
 kept by a very civil and obliging person, 
 of the luminous name of John Gas — a lit- 
 tle, fat, good-humored, landlord-looking 
 body, with a countenance strongly expres- 
 sive of his comfortable condition — having 
 a capital business, and being very much 
 at his ease, both in mind and body. His 
 house was a favorite resort of the pack- 
 carriers — and for good reasons. It was 
 the last inn of any note on the Scotch 
 
 side, and was, of consequence, the first 
 they came to on re-entering their native 
 country from their expeditions into Eng- 
 land. The quarters, besides, were in 
 themselves excellent ; the accommodations 
 were good ; and the fare abundant, rea- 
 sonable, and of the first quality — espe- 
 cially the liquor, that great sine qua non 
 of good cheer. In addition to all this, 
 John Gas himself was the very pink of 
 landlords ; humorous, kind, attentive, and 
 obliging ; possessing that valuable quality 
 of being able to stand almost any given 
 quantity of drink, which enabled him to 
 distribute his presence and his company 
 over any number of successive guests . Fresh 
 as a bedewed daisy, and steady as a wave- 
 beaten rock, he was always forthcoming, 
 whatever mis;ht have been the amount of 
 previous duty he had performed ; and 
 what might remain yet to do he always 
 overtook, and executed with credit to 
 himself, and satisfaction to his customers 
 — no instance having been known of his 
 having been placed hors de combat^ either 
 by ale-cup or brandy-bottle. With such 
 claims on public patronage, it was no won- 
 der that his house secured so large a share 
 of the custom of the itinerant merchants 
 of the time ; who, so much did they ap- 
 preciate the comforts of the Fioshend Inn, 
 and so much were they alive to the merits 
 of its host, that they would not rest, foul 
 or fair, dark or light, anywhere within ten 
 miles of it. A dozen of them were thus 
 frequently assembled together at the same 
 time under the hospitable roof; and, be- 
 ing all known to each other, they formed, 
 on such occasions, a merry corps — spend- 
 ing freely, and sitting down all together at 
 the same table. A more amusing or more 
 entertaining company could, perhaps, no- 
 where be found ; for they were all shrewd, 
 intelligent men — their profession and their 
 wandering lives putting them in possession 
 of a vast store of curious adventure and 
 anecdote, and throwing many sights in 
 their way which escape the local fixtures 
 of the human race. Naturally of a gos- 
 
446 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 sipping turn, a propensity made particu- 
 larly evident when they chanced to meet 
 together in such a way as we have de- 
 scribed, they were in the habit of amusing 
 each other with narratives of what they had 
 seen and heard that was strange, and en- 
 livening the evening by merry tale and 
 jest. 
 
 It was somewhere about the month of 
 March in the year 1750, that a knot of 
 these worthies, consisting of seven or 
 eight, was assembled in the cheerful kit- 
 chen of the Floshend Inn — an apartment 
 they preferred for its superior comfort, its 
 blaziuof fire, and its freedom from all re- 
 straint. Some of the guests present on 
 this occasion were on their way to Eng- 
 land ; others had just returned from it, 
 with packs of Manchester goods and large 
 bales of Kendal leather. These last, and 
 all other descriptions of merchandize 
 which his pack-carrier customers brought, 
 were stowed in a large room in the inn, 
 which the landlord had very judiciously 
 and very properly appropriated for this 
 purpose ; while the horses that bore them 
 were comfortably quartered in the commo- 
 dious and well-ordered stables. They 
 were seated on either side of the fire, with 
 a small round table between them ; on 
 which stood a circle of glasses ; in the 
 centre a smoking jug, whose contents may 
 be readily guessed ; and close by the table 
 was the landlord doin2; the honors of the 
 occasion — that is, making the brandy- 
 toddy, and filling the glasses of his guests. 
 The master of ceremonies was in great 
 glee, being precisely in his element, the 
 situation of all others in which he most de- 
 lighted — a bowl of good liquor before him, 
 a set of merry good friends around him, 
 and the prospect of a neat, snug reckon- 
 ing in perspective. The conversation 
 amongst the guests was general ; but it 
 might have been observed that one of the 
 party had got the ear of the landlord, and 
 was telling him, in an under-tone, some 
 curious story ; for the latter, with head 
 inclined towards the facetious narrator, 
 
 was chuckling and smirking at every turn 
 of the humorous tale. At length a sud- 
 den roar of laughter at once announced its 
 consummation, and attracted towards him- 
 self the general attention of the company. 
 
 " What's that, mine host?" was an in- 
 quiry put by three or four at once. 
 " Something guid, I warrant ; for that 
 was a hearty ane." The speaker meant 
 Mr. Gas's laugh. " What was't ?" 
 
 " It's a story," replied he — the tears 
 still standing in his eyes — " that Andrew, 
 here, has been telling me, aboot the min- 
 ister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass — 
 and a very guid ane it is. Andrew, will I 
 tell it .^" he added, turning round to the 
 person who had told him the story. 
 
 " Surely, surely," replied Andrew ; 
 ^' let it gang to the general guid." 
 
 "Aweel, friends," said mine host, now 
 confronting his auditors, " the minister o' 
 Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is, though a 
 clergyman, a droll sort o' body, and very 
 fond o' a curious story, and still fonder o' 
 a guid joke — and no a whit the waur is he 
 o' that ; for he is a guid, worthy man, as 
 I mysel ken. The minister had a servant 
 lass they ca'ed Jenny Waterstone — a 
 young, gu.id-lookin, decent, active quean ; 
 and she had a sweetheart o' the name o' 
 David Widrow — a neighboring ploughman 
 lad, a very decent cheild in his way — wha 
 used to come skulkin aboot the manse at 
 nights, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny 
 withoot ony objection on the pairt o' the 
 minister, wha believed it to be, as it really 
 was, an honorable courtship on baith sides. 
 Ae nicht, being later in his garden than 
 usual — indeed, until it got pretty dark — 
 the minister's attention was suddenly at- 
 tracted by a loud whisperin on the ither 
 side o' the garden wa,' just opposite to 
 where he stood. He listened a moment, 
 an' soon discovered that the whisperers 
 were David Widrow an' his servant, an' 
 overheard, as the nicht was uncommonly 
 lown, the followins; conversation between 
 the lovin pair : — 
 
 ' I fear, Jenny,' said David, ' that the 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 447 
 
 minister winna be owre weal pleased to 
 see me comin sae often aboot the boose.' 
 
 ^ I dinna think he'll be ill pleased/ re- 
 plied Jenny. ' He's no ane o' that 
 kind.' 
 
 ' Still,' said David, ' I had better let 
 the nicht fa,' noo an' then, before I come ; 
 and then he'll no see me mair than four 
 times a-week or sae. He canna count 
 that bein very troublesome.' 
 
 ' Just as yc like, David,' said she. 
 
 ' But hoo am I to let ye ken I'm here .'' 
 inquired the lover. 
 
 ' Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen 
 windo, an' I'll come oot to ye,' replied 
 the girl. 
 
 ^ Very weel,' said David ; * I'll come 
 and rap at the back window the morn's 
 nicht.' 
 
 ' Do sae,' replied she ; ' an', if I canna 
 get oot to ye at the moment, just step 
 into the barn till I come. I'll leave the 
 door open for ye.' 
 
 This matter arranged, the lovers parted, 
 little suspecting who had overheard them ; 
 and the minister went into the house. 
 On the following evening, a little after 
 dark, the doctor, closely wrapped up in a 
 plaid belonging to his serving man, slip- 
 ped oot, an,' stealin up behind the hoose 
 till he -cam to the kitchen window, gave 
 the preconcerted signal, by gently tapping 
 on it with his fingers. Jenny, who was 
 employed at the moment in bottlin off a 
 sma' cask o' choice strong ale for his ain 
 particular use, immediately answered the 
 ca,' raised the window, an' put oot her 
 head. 
 
 * Is that you, David ?' said she. 
 
 ^ Yes,' said the minister, m a whisper 
 so gentle as to prevent her recognising 
 his voice. 
 
 ' I canna get to ye at present,' said 
 Jenny ; ' for I'm engaged bottlin some ale, 
 an' maun put it a' past before I gang oot ; 
 the minister's waitin till 1 take it up the 
 stair ; but love maks clever hands, as they 
 say, an' I'll gie ye something to keep ye 
 frae wearyin, in the meantime, till I come.' 
 
 Sayin this, she handed him oot a bottle o' 
 the ale, an' a basket, containin some 
 cakes an' cheese. ' Now,' said she, ' tak 
 thae awa to the barn wi' ye, David, an' 
 tak a bite an' a soup till 1 come.' And 
 she drew down the window and resumed 
 her work. The minister, without saying 
 a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed 
 it in a dark corner at a little distance. In 
 a short time he again returned to the win- 
 dow, an' again rapped. The window was 
 promptly thrown up, an' Jenny's head 
 thrust oot. 
 
 ' Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny .?' 
 said the minister, speaking as low as bo- 
 fore, and disguising his voice as well as he 
 could. 
 
 ' Anither bottle, David !' exclaimed 
 Jenny, in surprise. ' Gude save us frae 
 a' evil ! hae ye finished a hail bottle al- 
 ready ? My troth, that's clever wark ! 
 But I canna gie ye anither the nicht, 
 David. It's a' put past. Besides, ye hae 
 an each for ae nicht.' 
 
 " Weel, weel,' said the minister ; ' come 
 oot as sune as ye can, Jenny.' And he 
 again slippit awa. 
 
 Thinkin, noo, that he couldna carry the 
 joke farther wi' safety, as there was great 
 risk o' the real David appearia, the min- 
 ister slippit into the house, threw off his 
 plaid, and went to a little back window 
 that was immediately over the kitchen 
 one, from which he could, by a little cau- 
 tious management, both see and overhear, 
 unobserved, all that should pass between 
 Jenny and her lover, when he came on 
 the stage. Nor had he to wait lono- for 
 this. In a few minutes after he had tak- 
 en his station, he saw David come round 
 the corner of the house, and steal, with 
 cautious steps, towards the kitchen win- 
 dow. He rapped. The window was 
 raised ; but evidently wi' some impa- 
 tience. 
 
 ' Gude bless mc, Davie ! are ye there 
 again already P said Jenny, somewhat 
 testily. ' Dear, me, man, can ye no hae 
 patience a bit .'' I'll come to ye imme- 
 
448 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 diately.' And, without waiting for any 
 answer, slie again banged down tlie win- 
 dow. 
 
 David was confounded at tins treat- 
 ment ; but, as Jeuny bad gien bim nae 
 time to mak ouy remark for bcr edifica- 
 tion, be made one or two for bis ain. 
 
 ' Here again P be said, muttering to 
 bimsolf— ' bore already ! Can I no bae 
 patience !' Tben after a pause — ' Wbat 
 does tbe woman mean ? Wbat can sbe 
 mean ?' 
 
 Tbis was a question, bowever, wbicb 
 Jenny berself only could explain, and for 
 tbis explanation David bad to w^ait witb 
 wbat patience be could conveniently spare. 
 But be certainly badna to tarry lang ; for, 
 in twa or tbree minutes after, a soft, low 
 voice was beard saying — 
 ' Wbar are ye, David .-' 
 ' Here,' quotb David, in tbe same cau- 
 tious voice. 
 
 ' Dear me, man,' said Jenny, ' wbat 
 was a' yer burry } I'm sure ae rap at tbe 
 window was as guid as twenty. Ye micbt 
 bae been sure I wad come to ye as sune as 
 I could.' 
 
 ' Hurry, Jenny ! Wbat do ye mean ? 
 I was only ance at tbe window,' replied 
 David. ' Ye surely canna ca' tbat impa- 
 tience.' 
 
 ' Ye're fou, Davie — tbat's plain,' said 
 Jenny. ' Tbe bottle o' ale bas gane to 
 yer bead, and ye've forgotten. Nae won- 
 der ; it wasna sma beer, I warrant ye, but 
 real double stoot. Catcli tbe minister 
 drinkin onytbing else ! Tbae black-coats 
 ken wbat's guid for tbem.' And, witbout 
 waitin for ony answer, sbe proceeded : — 
 ^ But wbar bae ye left tbe basket, Davie r 
 Is't in tbe barn .'' 
 
 * Jenny,' said David — now perfectly be- 
 wildered by all tbis, to bim, wbolly incom- 
 prebensible raving — ' ye say Pm fou ; but 
 if I'm no greatly mistaen, ye're tbe fouest 
 o' tbe twa.' And be peered into ber 
 face, to see bow far appearances would 
 confirm bis conjectures. 
 
 ' Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk !' said 
 
 Jenny, pushing bim good-naturedly from 
 ber. ' Ye're just as fou's the Baltic — 
 that's plain. But tell me, man, wbar ye 
 put the basket ; for it ma}"- be missed. I 
 boup ye baena forgotten tbat too r 
 
 ' Jenny,' replied David, now somewhat 
 mair sincerely, ' will ye tell me at ance 
 what ye mean .'' Wbat bottles o' ale and 
 baskets are ye speakin aboot ?' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha I Like as ye dinna ken !' said 
 Jenny, looking archly, and giving bcr lover 
 another push. ' That's a guid ane ! To 
 drink my ale, and eat my bread and 
 cheese, and then deny it !''' 
 
 I leave you, guid freends (said the nar- 
 rator here), to conjecture wbat were Da- 
 vid's feelings, and to conceive wbat were 
 bis looks, while Jenny was thus charging 
 bim witb ingratitude. I'll no attempt a 
 description o' tbem. A' tbis time tbe 
 minister was lookin owre bis window, ricbt 
 abune the lovers, and beard every word o' 
 wbat they said; but be keepit quiet till 
 tbe argument should come to a crisis. In 
 tbe meantime tbe conversation between 
 tbe lovers proceeded. 
 
 ' Jenny,' said David, in reply to her 
 last remark, ' ye're either daft or fou — 
 and that's tbe end o't. Sae let ns speak 
 aboot something else if ye can.' 
 
 ' Do ye mean to say, David,' replied 
 Jenny — now getting somewhat serious too, 
 and a little surprised in ber turn, at seeing 
 the perfect composure of ber lover, and 
 tbe utter unconsciousness expressed on bis 
 countenance — ' do ye mean to say tbat I 
 didna gie ye a bottle o' ale and a basket 
 o' bread and cheese oot o' the window 
 there, aboot a quarter o' an hour syne .'' 
 
 ' Never saw tbem, nor beard o' tbem,' 
 replied David, witb great coolness. 
 
 ' Ta ! nonsense, man !' said Jenny, with 
 impatient credulity. ' And did ye no come 
 and seek anither .'' and did ye no come 
 tbree or four times to the window .- ' 
 
 ' Naetbing o' the kind,' replied David, 
 briefly, but with tbe same calmness and 
 composure as before. ' I never got a bot- 
 tle o' ale an' a basket o' bread frae ye oot 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 449 
 
 o' that window ; I never sought anither 
 frae ye ; and 1 hae been only ance at that 
 window this blessed nicht.' 
 
 There was nae resisting belief to a dis- 
 claimer sae coolly, sae calmly, and sae 
 pointedly made ; and Jenny acknowledged 
 this by immediately exclaiming, in the ut- 
 most dismay and alarm — 
 
 ' Lord preserve me, then ! wha was't 
 that got them, and whar are they ?' 
 
 Her queries were instantly answered. 
 
 ' It was me that got them, Jenny ; and 
 they're owre in yon corner yonder,' said 
 the minister, in a loud whisper, and now 
 thrustins: his head oot o' the window. 
 
 Jenny looked up for an instant in hor- 
 ror, uttered a loud scream, and fled. Da- 
 vid looked up, too, for a second, and then 
 set after her as fast as he could birr ; 
 leavin the facetious, but worthy minister 
 in convulsions o' laughter. 
 
 And that, my freends (here said the 
 merry landlord), is the story o' the minis- 
 ter o' Kirkfodden and his sert^ant lass as 
 tauld to me by my guid freen, Andrew, 
 here " — laying his hand kindly on the 
 shoulder of the person he alluded to. The 
 narrator was rewarded for his story, or ra- 
 ther for his manner of telling it — for in 
 this art he excelled — by a continued roar 
 of laughter from his auditory. When this 
 had subsided — 
 
 " Come now," he said, " put in yer 
 glasses. The best story's no the waur o' 
 a weetin. It looks as weel again through 
 a glass o' toddy." 
 
 The invitation thus humorously given 
 was at once obeyed. In a twinkling a 
 circle of empty glasses, like a garde du 
 corps., surrounded the bowl, and were soon 
 replenished, with a dexterity and skill 
 which long practice alone could have given 
 the artist. His well-practised hand and 
 arm skimmed the ponderous vessel as 
 lightly over the glasses as if it had been a 
 cream-pot ; filling each of the latter as it 
 went along to exactly the same height — 
 not a drop in or over — with a precision 
 that was truly beautiful to behold. 
 
 VOL. II. 66 
 
 The glasses, which had been thus sci- 
 entifically filled, having been again emp- 
 tied, the landlord suddenly fixed his look 
 on another of his guests, who was sitting 
 up in one of the furthest corners, by the 
 fireside, and to whom his attention had 
 been directed by observing him musing 
 and smiling at intervals, as if tickled by 
 the suggestions of his imagination. He 
 rightly took them for symptoms of a story, 
 and acted upon this impression. 
 
 '' James," he said, addressing the per- 
 son alluded to, who was at the moment 
 gazing abstractedly on the fire, " if I'm no 
 mistaen, ye hae something to tell that 
 micht amuse us. Ye're lookin like it, at 
 ony rate, if that smirk at the corner o' yer 
 mouth has ony intelligence in't " 
 
 James turned round, and, with a smile 
 that was gradually acquiring breadth, said 
 that he was " thinkin aboot Tam Brodie 
 and the kirn." 
 
 " I was sure o't," exclaimed the land- 
 lord, triumphantly. " What aboot Tam 
 and the kirn, James .?" 
 
 " There's little in't," replied the other ; 
 " but I'll tell it for the guid o' the com- 
 pany." And he immediately went on. 
 " I dare say the maist o' ye here ken Tam 
 Brodie o' the Broomhouse ; and them that 
 dinna may noo learn that he's a sma' far- 
 mer, as weel as unco sma' man, in a cer- 
 tain part o' Annandale. He is in but very 
 indifierent circumstances, and has, on the 
 whole, a sair struggle wi' the world ; but 
 this is no to hinder him, as hoo should it, 
 frae haein a maist extraordinar fondness 
 for cream ; but it ousfht to hinder him frae 
 takin every opportunity, which he docs, 
 o' his wife's bein oot o' the way, to steal 
 frae his ain kirn, to the serious detriment 
 o' his ain interest. His wife entertains the 
 same opinion ; for she's obliged to watch 
 him like a cat ; and when she does catch 
 him at the forbidden vessel, or discovers 
 that he has been there — which she often 
 does, by the ring about his mouth, when 
 she has come so suddenly on him as no to 
 gie him time to remove the evidence — she 
 
450 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 does pepper him sweetly wi' the first thing 
 that comes to her haun ; for she's a trim- 
 mer, though a weel-behaved, hard-working 
 woman. A' her watchfulness, however, 
 and a' the wappins she could gie her hus- 
 band, could neither cure him o' his pro- 
 pensit}^, nor prevent him indulging it 
 "whenever he thought he could do it with- 
 oot bein detected. 
 
 It happened ae day, that Mrs. Brodie 
 had some errand to a neighboring farm- 
 house, which she behoved to execute per- 
 sonally. Having dressed herself a little 
 better than ordinary for this purpose, she 
 cam to her husband, who was at the mo- 
 ment delvin in the kailyard behind the 
 house, told him where she was gaun, and 
 desired him to look after the weans till 
 her return. This task, Tam, of course, 
 readily undertook, and continued to delve 
 awa as composedly as if his wife's proposed 
 absence had suggested no other idea to 
 him. He, in short, looked as innocent of 
 a sinister purpose as a man could do ; 
 although at that very moment the cunnin 
 little rascal's mind was fu' o' the idea o' 
 makin a dive at the kirn, the moment his 
 wife's back was turned. And he soon made 
 these evil intentions manifest enouo-h. 
 While his wife was speakin to him, leavin 
 the bairns in his charge, Tam never raised 
 his head, but continued delvin awa wi' 
 great assiduity. He was, in fact, afraid 
 to lift his head, for fear that his wife 
 should discover his joy on his countenance, 
 and tak some means o' bafflin his designs. 
 Although, however, he didna raise his 
 head while she was speakin to him, he did 
 it the instant she left him. While con- 
 tinuin bent as if in the act o' workin, he 
 looked after her till she disappeared down 
 a brae, at the distance o' aboot a hundred 
 yards, when he stood erect, stuck his 
 spade in the ground, and went wi' delibe- 
 rate step into the hoose. This delibera- 
 tion, however, did not proceed so much 
 from a consciousness of security, as to 
 prevent exciting the suspicion o' his ain 
 weans, whom he did not wish to trust with 
 
 j the secret o' his intended depredations on 
 the kirn, for fear they should tell their 
 mother, as, had they known it, they cer- 
 tainly would — perhaps not deliberately, 
 but they would blab it. This risk, there- 
 fore, he resolved not to run. On enterin^r 
 the kitchen whar the weans war, to the 
 number o' three or four — 
 
 * What keeps ye a' in the hoose sic a 
 nice bonny day as this .'' said he ; ' awa 
 and play yersels in the yard for a wee ; 
 and, as I'm wearied and gaun to rest my- 
 sel, ye can come and tell me whan ye see 
 yer mither comin. Ye can see her, ye 
 ken, frae the tap o' the yard a lang way 
 aff. Noo,' he said, addressin the last o' 
 the urchins, as they scampered oot, in 
 obedience to their father's commands, 
 ' noo, mind and let me ken the momeiit 
 your mother comes in sight.' The boy 
 promised, and rushed out after his bro- 
 thers and sisters. The coast was now 
 clear ; Tam's progress thus far was tri- 
 umphant. He had never had before sae 
 fair a field for operations, and he felt all 
 the satisfaction that his happy situation 
 was capable of affording. 
 
 Havin got the weans oot, he advanced 
 to the door, shut it, and, to prevent any 
 unseasonable intrusion, locked it — at least 
 he thocht he had done so, but the bolt 
 had missed. Unaware of this circum- 
 stance, he proceeded to his operations with 
 a feeling of perfect security. Having gone 
 into the room where the kirn was, he lift- 
 ed the large stone by which the lid was 
 kept down and placed it on the floor. 
 This done, he lifted the lid itself, and next 
 the clean white cloth which is usually 
 thrown first on the mouth of the vessel. 
 These all removed, the glorious substance 
 appeared — thick, rich, and yellow. The 
 glutton gazed on it a moment with a rap- 
 turous eye ; but there was no time to be 
 lost. He had provided himself with a 
 small tin jug. This he now dipped into 
 the delicious semi-fluid mass, raised it to 
 his lips, and quaffed it ofl" as fast as its 
 consistency would admit. Again he dip- 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 451 
 
 ped and again lie swilled ; and, to make 
 . everything as comfortable as possible, be 
 next drew a chair to the kirn, sat down on 
 it, stretched out his legs, and in this luxu- 
 rious and deliberate attitude proceeded 
 with his debauch. While in the act of 
 pouring down his throat the fifth or sixth 
 jug, with his head thrown back, his eye — 
 though half closed, from an overpowering 
 sense of enjoyment — caught a glimpse of 
 a castle o' cakes and a plate filled wi' rolls 
 o' fresh butter, that stood on the upper 
 shelf of a cupboard fastened high upon the 
 wa' in ane o' the corners o' the apartment. 
 The sight was tempting ; for he felt at 
 that moment somewhat hungry, and ho 
 thocht, besides, the cakes and butter 
 would eat delightfully wi' the cream — and 
 there is little doot they would. Filled 
 wi' this new idea, he rose frae his chair, 
 and approached the cupboard wi' the in- 
 tention o' sackin it ; but it was owre high 
 for him. (He was a very little man). 
 This, however, he was perfectly aware o'. 
 So he took a stool in his hand, placed it, 
 and mounted ; but was still several inches 
 from the mark. Finding this, he descend- 
 ed, put anotlier stool on the top o' the 
 first, and, on again mounting, found him- 
 self just barely within reach o' the prize. 
 By seizing, however, a fast hold o' ane o' 
 the shelves o' the cupboard by one hand, 
 he found he could raise himsel up suffi- 
 ciently high to accomplish the purposed 
 robbery wi' the ither. Discovering this, 
 he grasped the shelf, and was just in the 
 act o' raisin himsel up by its means, when 
 the stool on which he was standin (he had 
 stood owre near the end o't) suddenly 
 canted up and left him suspended to the 
 cupboard shelf; for he held on like grim 
 death, kickin and spurrin awa in a vain 
 attempt to recover his footin. This was a 
 state o' things that couldna continue long ; 
 either he must come doon himsel, or the 
 cupboard must come doon alang wi' him — 
 and the latter was the upshot. Down 
 came the cupboard ; wi' everything that 
 was in it— and it was filled wi' cheeny and 
 
 crystal — smash on the floor wi' a dreadfu 
 crash, and Tarn below it. There wasna a 
 hail glass, cup, or plate left ; and the rows 
 o' butter were rollin in a' directions 
 through the floor. Here was a pretty 
 business ; and the puir culprit knew it. 
 Cantin away the cupboard frae aboon him, 
 he slowly rose (for he was not at all much 
 hurt) to his feet, infinitely mair distressed 
 wi' fear for his wife's vengeance than wi' 
 regret for his ain loss. At this instant — 
 that is, just as he had gained his feet and 
 was lookin ruefully down on the wreck he 
 had occa-sioncd — ane o' his bairns cam 
 runnin to the door, and bawled out the 
 delightful intelligence — 
 
 ' Faither, my mother's comin !' 
 The horrible announcement roused him 
 from his reverie and instantly put him on 
 the alert. He had presence o' mind 
 eneuch left to recollect that the cupboard 
 wasna a' he had to answer for. There 
 was the kirn, which, in its present denud- 
 ed state, told an ugly tale. He flew to 
 remedy this. He snatched up the towel, 
 spread it over the mouth o't, lifted the 
 huge stone with which all had been se- 
 cured, dashed it down — on what ? on the 
 lid .? No, in his hurry and confusion he 
 forirot the lid. On the towel — and down 
 went towel and stone into the kirn, and 
 the latter with such force as fairly knock- 
 ed out the bottom, and sent the whole 
 contents streamin owre the floor. At this 
 particularly felicitous moment, his wife 
 entered the outer door, when the first 
 thing she met was the colly dog wi' a row 
 o' the fresh butter in his mouth. In ordi- 
 nary circumstances, this wad hae been a 
 provokin aneuch sicht to her, but a 
 glimpse at the same instant o' the dreadfu 
 ruin within made it appear but a sma' 
 matter indeed. On enterin on the scene 
 o' devastation she fand the culprit stand- 
 m<y almost senseless and speechless wi' 
 terror and horror, and every other stupi- 
 fyin feeling that can be named, in the 
 middle o' the ruins he had created, and 
 up to the shoe-mouth in cream. 
 
 L 
 
452 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 * An awfii business this, Maggj,' he said, 
 in a sepulchral voice. It was a' he got 
 leave to say ; for, in the next moment, he 
 was felled wi' the stroke o' a besom ; and 
 when he resumed his feet, which he did 
 almost instantly, he took to his heels, and 
 didna venture hame again till wife and 
 weans were a' lang in their beds. Tarn 
 neer touched the kirn after this. 
 
 '' And hero," said the narrator, " ends 
 my story o' Tarn Brodie and the kirn." 
 
 " An' a very guid ane it is," rejoined 
 the landlord, taking off a cold half glass 
 of jDunch that stood before him. '■ 1 ken 
 Tarn o' the Broomhouse as weel as I ken 
 ony ane here, and it's just as like him as 
 can bo. William," added mine host, now 
 turning and addressing another member 
 of the company — a quiet, mild-looking 
 man, whom one could not a priori^ have 
 suspected of being a joker — " that's near- 
 ly as guid a ane as the Blue Bonnet. Do 
 ye mind that story V William shook his 
 head and smiled. 
 
 " I mind it weel aneuch," he replied ; 
 but it was rather a serious affair — at least 
 it micht hae been sae, and I'm no fond 
 o' recollectin't. 
 
 " Nonsense, man ; nae harm cam o't," 
 said the other ; " and it was harmlessly 
 meant." 
 
 " But it micht hae been a bad busi- 
 ness," said William. 
 
 " But it wasna,'''' said mine host ; " and, 
 as I dinna believe there's ane here that 
 ever heard the story, I wish ye wad let me 
 tell it." 
 
 " It's no worth tellin," said the other. 
 "I'll tak my chance o' that," replied 
 the landlord ; " if it's counted worthless, 
 I'll tak the wyte o't. Do ye give me 
 leave .?" 
 
 " A wilfu man maun hae his ain way — 
 do as you like," rejoined William Bry- 
 don, affecting a chariness he did not alto- 
 gether feel. 
 
 Thus regularly licensed, the narrator 
 began : — 
 
 " About twa or three years syne, there 
 
 used to come about this house o' mine a 
 wee bit whupper-snapper body o' an Eng- 
 lish bagman. An impudent, upaettin brat 
 he was, although no muckle higher than 
 that table. The favorite theme o' this 
 wee ill-tongued rascal — for he had a vile 
 ane — was abusin Scotland, an' a' that war 
 in't, for a parcel o' sneakin, hungry, beg- 
 garly loons. This was his constant talk 
 wherever he was, and whaever he might 
 be amang. I didna mind him mysel ; for 
 the cratur wasna a bad customer, and he 
 was, besides, such a wretched-lookin body 
 — I mean as to size and figure, for he was 
 aye weel aneuch put on — that puttin a 
 haun to him was oot o' the question. Ye 
 couldna hae blawn upon him, but ye wad 
 hae been in for murder, or culpable ho- 
 micide at the very least. But, although 
 I keep it a calm sough wi' him, and didna 
 mind his abusive jabberin, it wasna sae 
 wi' everybody ; and there was nane bore it 
 waur than oor freend William Brydon 
 here, wha aften forgethered wi' him in this 
 hoose. William couldna endure the cra- 
 tur, and mony a sair wrangle they had wi' 
 the tongue ; but the Englishman's was by 
 far the glibbest, though William's was the 
 weightier. It chanced that William and 
 the little gabby Englishman met here, 
 both on their way to England, ae day sune 
 after the execution o' the rebels in Car- 
 lisle — a time whan the Scots, as ye a' 
 dootless ken, war in unco bad odor 
 throughoot a' England, and especially in 
 Carlisle, whar the feelin ran sae high that 
 no person wearin ony piece o' dress which 
 smelt in the least o' Scotland was safe in 
 the streets. And wha was sae vindictive 
 against the rascally rebels, as he ca'ed 
 them, as oor wee bagman ? ^ Headiu and 
 hansfin's owre suid for the villains,' he 
 wad say. ' They should be roasted be- 
 fore a slow fire, like sae mony shouthers 
 o' mutton.' Oh, he had a bitter spite at 
 them ! It was aboot this time, as I said, 
 that he and oor freend here met in my 
 hoose — and, as usual, they had a tremen- 
 dous yokin ; but it was, on this occasion, 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 453 
 
 a' aboot the rebels ; for this was the thing 
 uppermost in the wee bagman's mind at 
 the time. It was a grand catch for him, 
 and he made the maist o't. In short, a' 
 his abuse now took this particular direction. 
 
 Notwithstanding William and the bag- 
 man's constant quarrelin, and their mutual 
 dislike o' each ither, thej aye drank the- 
 gither whan they met, and whiles took 
 guid scours o't, and lang sederunts ; but 
 it wasna for love, ye'll readily believe, 
 they sat thegither : na, na, it was for the 
 purpose o' gettin a guid worryin at ane 
 anither ; so that they may be said to hae 
 sought each ither 's company oot o' a kind 
 o' lovin hatred to ane anither. In the 
 afternoon o' which I'm speakin, the twa 
 as usual drank and quarreled ; but I was 
 surprised to find, towards the end o' their 
 sederunt, that oor freend here, instead o' 
 gettin angrier, as he used to do, as the 
 contest drew towards a close, grew aye the 
 calmer ; and what astonished me still mair 
 suddenly showed a strong disposition to 
 curry favor with his antagonist, and actu- 
 ally so far succeeded, by dint o' soothin 
 words, as to induce the bagman to extend 
 the hand o' friendship and good fellowship 
 to him — swearing that William was, after 
 all, a devilish good fellow, for a Scotch- 
 man. The bagman, however, was by this 
 time, pretty weel on by the head ; and 
 this micht hae had some share in producing 
 this new-born kindness for the Scotchman. 
 However this may be, being both anxious 
 to get on to Carlisle that night, they 
 agreed — such good freends had they thus 
 suddenly become — to travel together. This 
 settled, their horses were brought to the 
 door. William's packs had been sent on 
 before, and he had hired ane o' my horses 
 to carry him into Carlisle. Just as they 
 were gaun oot the passage there, to the 
 door to mount, William hings back a bit, 
 lettin the bagman gang on before him, and 
 whispers into my ear — 
 
 ' I'll play that pockpuddin a pliskie yet. 
 Hae ye such a thing as an auld broad bon- 
 net aboot ye, that ye could lend me ?' 
 
 Little dreamin what he was gaun to do 
 with it, I replied I had ; and runnin into 
 the kitchen here, I took down frae a nail 
 ane that I used to wear when gaun aboot 
 the garden, and gave it to him. William 
 took it, rowed it up, and thrust it in his 
 pocket, without sayin a word, and, in three 
 minutes after, the twa war aff. 
 
 On arrivin within aboot a mile o' Car- 
 lisle, Willie proposed to the bagman that 
 they should go into a public-house that 
 was on the road-side, and hae something 
 before they entered the toon, as they re- 
 quired to part a wee on this side o't — 
 William having, he said, some sma' busi- 
 ness to do aff the road. To this proposal 
 the Englishman readily agreed, and in 
 they gaed, leavin their horses at the door. 
 Here William plied the bagman — nothing 
 loth, for he was a druckenwee rascal — wi' 
 brandy till he began to wink, and no to be 
 perfectly certain which end o'him was up- 
 permost. Having reduced him to this 
 condition, his friend proposed that they 
 should be moving, when they both got up 
 for that purpose. 
 
 ' Where's my 'a^ ?' said the bagman, 
 turnin round to look for the article he 
 named. 
 
 ' Here it's, man,' said William, coming 
 behind him and clapping the bonnet on his 
 head. 
 
 ' Thank you, friend !' replied the bag- 
 man, generously believin that, as he felt 
 something put upon his head, it must be 
 his hat ; and, thus theekit, he walked to 
 the door and mounted his horse, as grave 
 and composed as if a' was right, and rode 
 off wi' William along side o' him. They 
 hadna ridden far, however, when his friend, 
 for obvious reasons, desirous of being quit 
 o' his companion, said he was sorry that 
 they maun now part, he requiring as he 
 told him before, to turn off the road a bit. 
 On this they shook hands and parted. The 
 bagman hadna proceeded far wi' the noto- 
 rious badg-e o' Scotland — the broad blue 
 bonnet — on his head, till he found himself, 
 he could not conceive how, an object of 
 
:a 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ma; k=^d attention to a' the passers by. At 
 length, as he approached the town, this 
 att:3ntion became gradually more and more 
 alarming, and began at the same time to 
 be accompanied by such symptoms as 
 plainly evinced that it was not of a pleasant 
 character 
 
 Popular notice, the bagman very weel 
 saw, he had attained by some means or 
 other ; but he also saw as weel that this 
 by no means meant popular admiration ; 
 for in every face that was turned towards 
 him there was an angry scowl. Amazed 
 and confounded at being thus so strangely 
 and disagreeably marked, the poor little 
 Eno-lishman looked first at his le^s and 
 then at bis borse, leaning forward for this 
 purpose, and then examined his own outer 
 man all over, to see if he could discern 
 anything wrong with either, that might ac- 
 count for bis sudden elevation in the pub- 
 lic mind ; but he found nothing — all was 
 right, and the little bagman was more 
 perplexed than ever. He rode on, how- 
 ever — as what else could he do ? — and at 
 length entered the town. Here the gene- 
 ral attention became still more strikingly 
 marked : people stood on the streets and 
 stared broadly at him ; and, when he had 
 passed, looked after him, and shook their 
 heads. At length matters came to a crisis. 
 This approached by occasional cries of 
 ' Doon wi' the rebel !' ' Doon wi' the 
 Scotch cut- throat !' ' Hang the robber !' 
 ' Head him ! Head him !' If confounded 
 before, the little bagman was now ten times 
 more so. These terms could never apply 
 to him, and yet they were most palpably 
 directed to him. What on earth could it 
 mean } To be taken, too, for a character 
 which of all others he most abhorred. It 
 was unaccountable — most extraordinary. 
 In the meantime, both the cries and the 
 crowd increased till the latter at Icno'th 
 fairly surrounded the little bagman and his 
 horse, and peremptorily arrested his pro- 
 gress, still shouting, but with greater 
 ferocity, ' Down with the rebel !' 
 
 ' Good people,' said the perplexed and 
 
 terrified cratur, ^ what do you mean .'' 
 Hear me for a moment. I'm no rebel. 1 
 detest them as much as you can do. I am 
 an Englishman — a born Ensilishman.' 
 
 ' Yes, when it suits your purpose, ye 
 cowardly Scotch dog !' exclaimed one of 
 the crowd, advancing towards him, and 
 seizing him by a leg. 
 
 ' We know you too well by your head- 
 mark,' said a second, bustling forward to 
 have a share in forcibly dismounting the 
 wee bagman ; a measure which was now 
 evidently contemplated, if not determined 
 on, by the crowd. 
 
 ' Yes, yes !' shouted a third — 'he has 
 the mark of the beast on him. Down with 
 him ! down with him ! He can't deny the 
 blue bonnet. Down with it and the head 
 that's in it!' Seeing all eyes at this mo- 
 ment directed to that part of his person 
 where a hat should have been, the wee 
 bagman instinctively clapped his hand on 
 his head. It felt strange ! There was no 
 superstructure — all was bare and flat. He 
 pulled off the mysterious covering, and be- 
 held with horror and amazement a laro-e. 
 broad, Scotch, blue bonnet, the size of a 
 cart wheel, with a red knob, like an over- 
 grown cherry, in the centre o't. 
 
 ' Ay, where got ye that ? where got ye 
 that .'^' exclaimed some one frae the crowd. 
 But, though the question was put, no an- 
 swer was permitted to the questioned. In 
 the next instant he was on his back on the 
 street, kicking and struggling amongst the 
 feet of his assailants, who applied the lat- 
 ter to all parts o' his person wi' a rapidity 
 and vio;or o' execution that threatened, 
 and certainly would hae extinguished the 
 wee life o' him, if he hadna been rescued 
 a trifle on this o't by a guard o' sodgers, 
 whom the alarm had brought to the spot. 
 
 Battered, bruised, speechless, and his 
 face streaming wi' blood, the unfortunate 
 bit bagman was now conveyed to the guard- 
 house, and from thence, after he had some- 
 what recovered, to prison, under the same 
 suspicion which had procured him such 
 rough treatment from the mob. So that 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 455 
 
 to appearance, as they werena very nice 
 in thae times, he was saved frae a violent 
 death only to be subjected tp anither ; frae 
 bein kicked into the other world to be 
 hanged : and o' this opinion the wee bag- 
 man was himsel for some time, for the 
 authorities o' Carlisle war at that time ex- 
 cessively loyal, and wadna cared muckle 
 to hae hanged him on chance. As it was 
 however, he was kept in jail for a week, 
 when his innocence having been so clearly 
 established that the most loyal of his judges 
 couldna deny it, he was set at liberty — 
 though wi' a grudge for they wad still fain 
 hae hanged him — wi' a caution never to 
 wear a blue bonnet in Carlisle again. 
 
 " The wee bagman," added the land- 
 lord, " has never come this way since, 
 and I fancy now never will. Come, 
 freends," continued he, ^' shute in your 
 glasses — the drink's gettin cauld ; and," 
 he said, edging the mouth of the bowl 
 slopingly towards him, so as to afford him 
 a view of its contents, " there's a gay drap 
 in't yet." Then, with that forethought 
 which was a very remarkable and praise- 
 worthy trait in his character — " Betty," 
 he cried out to a servant girl, '' keep the 
 kettle boilin." 
 
 His call for the glasses of his friends 
 being promptly obeyed, they were as 
 promptly refilled, and it is but doing jus- 
 tice to the honest men assembled on this 
 occasion to state, were as speedily emptied 
 a2:ain. This done — 
 
 " iMr. Gas," said Walter Gibson, one 
 of the most extensive traders and most 
 respectable men in the company — " Mr. 
 Gas," he said— for they all addressed him 
 as their chairman — " these are a' queer 
 aneuch stories in their way that hae been 
 teirt the nicht ; but I'm no sure if there's 
 ony o' them better than the story o' Sandy 
 M'Gill and his niither." The landlord 
 cocked his ears. 
 
 " And what story's that, Watty ?" he 
 said. " I never heard it." 
 
 " It's no the waur o' that, however," 
 said Watty drily. 
 
 *' No a grain,'' replied the other, with 
 one of his good-natured laughs ; ^' but let 
 us judge for oursels." 
 
 "I'll do that," quoth Walter ; and he 
 immediately began : — "■ Twa or three years 
 ago, as ye a' ken. Lord Drumlanrig, son 
 o' the Duke o' Queensberry, raised a regi- 
 ment for what was ca'ed the Holland ser- 
 vice. His Lordship's headquarters, during 
 the recruitin for the corps, was Dumfries, 
 where he used to beat up on the market 
 days. Amongst those who were enlisted 
 on ane o' thae occasions, was a young lad 
 o' the name o' Sandy M'Gill — a joiner to 
 trade. Sandy was a handsome, good- 
 looking young man — very smart and clever 
 and possessed of a good education ; that is, 
 he wrote and figured weel. 
 
 On the regiment being completed, it was 
 embodied at Dunse, and then drilled for 
 some time. It was then marched to Leith, 
 Sandy M'Gill an' a', where it was to be 
 embarked for Amsterdam. Two days after 
 the regiment had left Dunse, Lord Drum- 
 lanrig, mounted on horseback, and attend- 
 ed by a servant, also mounted, set out 
 from Dumfries to join his regiment at 
 Leith, whence he meant to sail with it for 
 Holland. On approachin the Nether Mill, 
 his Lordship was recognized, while yet at 
 some distance, by an auld blacksmith o' 
 the name o' William Thamson. 
 
 ' There,' said he, to a bit lively, hardy- 
 looking auld wifie — it was Widow M'Gill 
 — ' there's Lord Drumlanrig comin for- 
 rit.' 
 
 ' Is that him .?' quoth the old wifie ; 
 ' feth an' I maun speak to him then ! He's 
 ta'en awa my puir Sandy for a sodger.' 
 
 And she ran into the middle o' the road, 
 and, ere Lord Drumlanrig was aware, she 
 had his horse by the bridle, exclaimin — 
 
 ' Please yer Lordship, ye maun stop 
 and speak to me a wee. I hae something 
 to say to ye.' 
 
 ' What is it, my good woman P said his 
 Lordship, smiling good-naturedly ; ' but 
 I'm in a great hurry, and you must not de- 
 tain me a moment.' 
 
45G 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ' What 1 want to speak to yer Lordship 
 aboot,' replied Widow JVrGill, taking nae 
 notice o' his Lordship's impatience, ' is 
 this : ye hae taen awa my puir son, Sandy, 
 for a sodger, an' I'm like to break my 
 heart aboot him.' 
 
 ' There's nae guid reason for that in the 
 world, my honest woman,' said his Lord- 
 ship ; * as he'll be better wi' me than 
 lyin at hame here, scartia the porridge 
 pots.' 
 
 ' I'm no sure o' that, my Lord, unless 
 ye look weel to him and tak him under yer 
 special care. Ye'll fin' him weel wordy 
 o't ; for, although I say it that sudena say 
 it, he's a clever, weel-inclined lad.' 
 
 ' I've nae doot o't, honest woman, nae 
 doot o't,' said his Lordship, now endeavor- 
 ing to move on ; ^ and, you may depend 
 on't, I'll see that he gets every justice.' 
 And he made another attempt to get on. 
 
 ^ Na, na, my Lord,' said the widow, 
 perceiving his efforts to get quit of her, ' I 
 wunna let ye gang that way — I hae some- 
 thing mair to say to ye yet ; but as I see 
 a' the neebors glowrin at us, ye'll just come 
 doon and step into the hoose wi' me a 
 minute, and I'll tell ye there a' I hae to 
 say.' 
 
 ' Really, really, my good woman,' said 
 his Lordship, in great alarm at this threat 
 ©'further detention, 'it is impossible — I 
 cannot on any account — I am indeed in a 
 great hurry, and exceedingly anxious to 
 get forrit.' 
 
 ' Deil-ma-care, my Lord ! — the deil a fit 
 o' ye'll stir till ye come in wi' me a bit — 
 on that I'm determined.' And she took a 
 still firmer baud o' the bridle. 
 
 ' Some ither time, my guid woman,' said 
 his Lordship despairingly. 
 
 ' Na, na, nae time like the present, my 
 Lord,' replied the widow. 
 
 Seein now that, unless he had recourse 
 to some violence — which it was neither his 
 nature nor desire to have — it was useless 
 to contend wi' the resolute auld wife, his 
 Lordship dismounted, though, ye may be- 
 lieve, wi' a very bad grace, gave his horse 
 
 to his servant to baud, and went in wi 
 Widow M'Gill to her little cot. On en- 
 terin the hoose, his Lordship made anither 
 desperate effort to prevail on the widow to 
 shorten his detention. 
 
 ' Now, my guid woman,' he said, ' let 
 me beg o' you to say quickly what ye hae 
 to say, for I really will not be detained.' 
 
 * No twa minnits, no twa minnits, my 
 Lord,' said the widow, dustin, wi' great 
 activity, wi' her apron, a chair for his 
 Lordship to sit doun upon. 
 
 ' No, no ; I really will not sit down,' 
 said his Lordship determinedly. ' I'll hear 
 what you hae to say standin.' 
 
 ' But ye maun sit, my Lord,' replied 
 the widow, wi' equal resolution. ' A 
 bonny thing it wad be, you to come into 
 my hoose, an' gang oot again withoot sit- 
 tin doun. Na, na, that maunna be said. 
 Doun, my Lord, ye maun sit.' And, 
 seein that he would only increase his ain 
 delay by resistance, doun, to be sure, his 
 Lordship did sit. ' Noo, my Lord,' says 
 the widow, ' I'm sure the deil a morsel o' 
 breakfast ye hae gotten the day yet — for 
 it's no aboon seven o'clock ; sae ye'll just 
 tak a mouthfu' wi' me.' 
 
 At this horrid proposal his Lordship 
 sprang frae his chair — for he was noo 
 fairly driven at bay — and made for the 
 door ; but the widow was as clever in the 
 heels as he was. She sprang after him, 
 an', before he could gain the door, had 
 him fast by the tails o' the coat, exclaim- 
 in, as she pu'ed him back — 
 
 ' Deil a fit o' ye, my Lord's gaun oot 
 o' this hoose till ye taste my bread an' 
 cheese. I'se baud ye fast, I warrant.' 
 
 Regardless o' her threats, his Lordship 
 still pressed for the door ; but the stieve 
 auld wifie held on wi' a determined an' 
 nae feckless grip, an' ho couldna mak it 
 oot, withoot efforts that might do her an 
 injury. Seein this, an' seein, at the same 
 time, the ludierousness o' the struggle, 
 his Lordship at length gied in, an' return- 
 ed to his seat. In a twinklin the active 
 auld wifie had a table before him, covered 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 457 
 
 wi' bread, butter, and cbeese, aud a large 
 jug o' sweet milk. 
 
 ' Noo, ii}y Lord, see an' taka moutlifu'. 
 It's but bamelj fare to put before a Lord ; 
 but it's gien wi' liearty guid will, an' that 
 maun mak amends.' 
 
 His Lordsbijo good-naturedly took a 
 little of what was put before him. While 
 doiu this, the auld wifie kept up a runnin 
 fire o' sma' talk. 
 
 ' Noo, my Lord, ye'll be guid to my 
 son. He's an honest man's bairn, but his 
 faither's dead an' gane mony a year syne ; 
 an' mony a lonely seat an' sair heart has 
 fa'en to my share sin syne ; but I aye 
 looked forward to findin a comforter an' 
 supporter in my only son, in my auld age ; 
 but noo he's taen frae me too, an' a' is 
 desolation an' darkness around me.' 
 
 Here the puir widow, whose maternal 
 feelings, thus excited by the picture she 
 had drawn o' her ain loneliness, had sud- 
 denly and totally changed her character, 
 or rather had brocht oot its real qualities, 
 which were, after a', those o' a kind an' 
 feelin heart, raised the corner o' her apron 
 to her eyes an' wiped awa an involuntary 
 tear. His Lordship, notwithstandin o' 
 the proYokin predicament in which he was, 
 feelin much affected by the widow's 
 lamentations, thus simply expressed, took 
 oot a memorandum-book frae his pocket, 
 an' havin inquh^ed her son's name, and 
 the name o' the place o' her residence, 
 wrote them doun. He next asked if she 
 knew in whose company he was. 
 
 ^ Captain Dooglas,' replied the widow 
 — ^ Captain Dooglas they ca' him.' Then 
 becomin querist in turn — ' Do ye ken 
 what sort o' a man he is, my Lord .-' 
 
 * Oh, an excellent man, my guid wo- 
 man,' said his Lordship. ' Your son 
 could not be under a better fellow.' And 
 his Lordship noted doun this circumstance 
 also, wi' the name o' Sandy's captain. 
 
 Havin dune this, he replaced his 
 memorandum-book in his pocket, an' rose 
 frae his seat, the widow noo offerin nae 
 farther resistance ; an' havin placed, un- 
 
 perceived as he thought, a couple o' gui- 
 neas on the table, was aboot to leave the 
 hoose, after shakin his hostess kindly by 
 the hand — for his Lordship was noo rather 
 tickled with the adventure a'thegither — 
 an' 23romisin to see to the interests o' her 
 son, when the widow, gettin her ee on the 
 coin, snatched it up, an' was forcin it 
 back on its original possessor, exclaim- 
 in — 
 
 ' Na, na, my Lord — I'll tak nae siller 
 for kindness. A' that I want is that ye 
 wad be guid to my puir Sandy, whan he's 
 far awa frae his hame an' his freends. 
 Be kind till him, my Lord, an' tak the 
 widow's blessin in return.' An' she was 
 pressin the money back on his Lordship, 
 when he ran frae her, got oot o' the hoose, 
 an' was aboot to mount his horse, when, 
 to his unutterable horror, he heard the 
 widow exclaimin — ' Gude guide me ! I 
 hae a' this time forgotten your servant, 
 my Lord — an' he'll be hungry aueuch, 
 too, puir fellow! I hae nae doot.' An' 
 she ran an' seized his horse next by the 
 bridle. ' Come doun, lad, an' come in 
 by a bit, an' tak a mouthfu'. His Lord- 
 ship, I'm sure, '11 wait twa or three min- 
 nits on ye without grudgin't ; for the puir 
 maun be fed as weel as the rich, the man 
 as weel as his maister.' 
 
 ' No, no, no. For God's sake, my 
 guid woman, let us be gone,' exclaimed 
 his Lordship, in an implorin voice, and 
 noo beginning to think he wad never get 
 oot o' the auld wife's hands. 
 
 ' Na, troth, my Lord, I'll no let him 
 go. The lad maun hae a mouthfu' o' 
 meat.' 
 
 ' Then, in heaven's name,' said his 
 Lordship, ^ if ye will hae him tak some- 
 thino-, brino-'t oot till him here, and dinna 
 tak him aff his horse. ' 
 
 Complyin wi' this request, the very first 
 she had complied wi', the auld wifie ran 
 in to the house — his Lordship, while she 
 was there, tellin his servant to put at ance 
 into his pocket whatever she brought — • 
 and brought oot a quantity o' bread and 
 
458 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS, 
 
 cbeese, which the man disposed of as his 
 master had desired him. 
 
 The coast being now clear, Lis Lord- 
 ship, after again shakin hands wi' the auld 
 wife, and promisin to keep an ee on her 
 son, put spurs to his horse, and darted aff 
 at full speed, as delighted wi' his liberty 
 as if he had escaped frao a highwayman ; 
 but, fast as he gaed, it was some seconds 
 before he got oot o'hearin o' the auld wife's 
 voice, bawlin after him — ' Noo, my Lord, 
 dinna forget Sandy, dinna forget Sandy 
 M'Gill.'' 
 
 On gaining some distance, both master 
 and man drew bridle and laughed heartily 
 at the adventure wi' the auld wife o' the 
 Nether Mill. 
 
 Aweel, shortly after, his Lordship em- 
 barked for Holland with a part of his 
 regiment — the remainder, amongst which 
 was Sandy M'Gill, proceeding in another 
 vessel — and arrived there, as did the 
 whole corps, in due time, and without any 
 accident. 
 
 Some days after the landin. Lord 
 Drumlanrig, at parade one forenoon, after 
 speakin and laughin for a few minutes wi' 
 Captain Douglas in front o' the line, went 
 up to a certain guid-lookin young sodger 
 in that officer's company, and, callin him 
 out frae his comrades, asked him his 
 name. 
 
 ' Sandy M'Gill, my Lord,' replied the 
 vouno" man, touchin his hat, and some- 
 what surprised at beiu singled out in this 
 way. 
 
 ' Exactly,' said his Lordship. * Well, 
 Sandy, I breakfasted in your mother's 
 house on my way frae Dumfries to Edin- 
 burgh, just before I left Scotland ; and a 
 kind, hearty old woman she is, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 ' I wonder, my Lord,' said Sandy, blush- 
 ing, ' that my mother could hae had the 
 impudence to tak your Lordship into her 
 puir sooty house.' 
 
 * It was no impudence at all, Sandy — 
 nae such thing. It was oot o' kindness to 
 me and affection for you. The breakfast, 
 
 however, was an excellent one, and gien 
 wi' a hearty welcome and richt guid wull. 
 But t promised ycr mother, vSandy,' con- 
 tinued his Lordship, ' to look after ye, 
 and I mean to do sae. Can you write 
 any .'' 
 
 Sandy said he could. 
 
 ^ Can you figure .^' 
 
 Another reply in the affirmative. 
 
 ' Can ye show me your handwriting .'* 
 Have ye any specimens upon you .^' 
 
 Sandy pulled out of his pocket some 
 scraps o' paper that exhibited his fist. 
 His Lordship looked at them, and said 
 the writing was very guid — that it wad do 
 very weel. ' Now, then, Sandy,' he add- 
 ed, 'I'll tell ye what I mean to do for 
 you, to begin wi' ; there's anither sergeant 
 wanted for your company, and I hae de- 
 sired Captain Douglas to appoint you. 
 You will get a suit o' claes frae the store, 
 and there's five guineas to you to purchase 
 necessaries, and I hae nae doot ye'll turn 
 oot a guid and brave sodger.' 
 
 Sandy endeavored to express his grati- 
 tude for the sudden and unexpected for- 
 tune ; but he couldna. Nor, though he 
 had been able, did his Lordship gie him 
 an opportunity ; for, anticipating the lad's 
 embarrassment, he walked awa the mo- 
 ment he had dune speakin. 
 
 Next day, Sandy appeared in the uni- 
 form o' a non-commissioned officer ; and, 
 being now on the road to promotion, re- 
 turned, at the conclusion o' the war, to 
 his native place, a captain ; attributin a' 
 his guid fortune to the breakfast which his 
 mother gae to Lord Drumlanrig at the 
 Nether Mill." 
 
 " Aweel, it is really curious hoo things 
 turn oot sometimes," said lang Jamie 
 Turner, on the conclusion o' the foregoing 
 story — very curious. Did ye ever hear, 
 Mr. Gas," continued Jamie, now address- 
 ing his landlord, " hoo Jock Tinwald, a 
 son o' Andrew Tinwald's o' Shaw Hill, 
 recovered forty guineas he once lost at the 
 Candlemas Fair o' Dumfries ?" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Gas, looking with 
 
THE FLOSHEND INN. 
 
 459 
 
 interest at the speaker. " I never heard 
 that ane." 
 
 " It was a gay clever ane," said Jamie 
 Turner, and, without further preface, he 
 proceeded to relate the following adven- 
 ture : — 
 
 " On a certain Candlemas Fair, some 
 twa or three years back, auld Tinwald o' 
 Shaw Hill, sent his son, Jock, to Dumfries, 
 wi' forty guineas in a net purse in his 
 pocket, to purchase a couple of good 
 draught horses. Jock wasna lang in the 
 fair until he fell in wi' twa horses that ap- 
 peared to be o' precisely the description 
 he wanted. He inquired their price, j 
 found it wasna far beyond the mark, and, 
 finally, after some chaffering, struck a 
 bargain with the seller. This done, the ; 
 young farmer put his hand into his pocket, , 
 to bring out the net purse with the forty 
 guineas. He started and looked pale. 
 It was not in the pocket in which he 
 thought — nay, in which he was certain he 
 had put it. He searched another, and 
 another, and another, with distraction in 
 his looks. It was in none of them — it was 
 lost, gone I He had been robbed. Of 
 this there was no doubt. Poor Jock was 
 in despair, but it was an evil without a 
 remedy ; for he had not the smallest 
 notion when, where, or by whom he had 
 been plundered. There was, therefore, 
 no help for it ; and, feeling this, Jock 
 repaired to a public house, drowned the 
 recollection of his loss in brandy, and 
 went home at night penniless, horseless, 
 and drunk. 
 
 Six months after this, the Rude Fair 
 of Dumfries came round ; an', in the 
 thick an' the thrang o' this fair, micht hae 
 been seen the braid shouthers an' the 
 round, healthfu', guidnatured face o' Jock 
 Tinwald. But surely he'll tak care this 
 time how he mingles wi' the crood, or at 
 least keep a sharp ee on his necbors. 
 Not he. There he is, pushin an' jostlin 
 awa in the heart o' the very densest mass, 
 wi' an apparent regardlessness o' conse- 
 quences which is most amazing, considerin 
 
 the loss he sustained on a former occasion. 
 Nay, not only is he doin this, but he is 
 ostentatiously displayin a purse apparent- 
 ly as well filled as the last one. This 
 does, indeed, seem the extreme of folly. 
 But it only seems so. It is not without a 
 reason. Jock is not so unguarded as he 
 appears. The truth is, he is just now 
 practising a ruse which he is not without 
 hope may help him to the recovery o' his 
 forty guineas. 
 
 The purse which Jock is so openly 
 sporting is filled not with gold, but with 
 copper. It contains, in short, instead of 
 guineas, a quantity of farthings, and is 
 thus ostentatiously displayed in the hope 
 of attracting the notice of the light-finger- 
 ed gentleman who had relieved him on 
 the former occasion — and with what 
 promise of success may be guessed frae 
 the following incident. 
 
 On Tinwald's first entering the scene o' 
 the fair, he was marked by two persons of 
 very equivocal appearance who were ho- 
 vering about, 
 
 ' That,' said ane o' them, nudging his 
 neebor wi' his elbow, and inclinin his 
 head towards Tinwald — ' that's the flat I 
 did at the last Candlemas* Fair. The 
 easiest handled guse I ever cam across.' 
 
 ' What wad ye think o' our tryin him 
 again P said the speaker's neebor. 
 
 ' Wi' a' my heart,' replied the other. 
 ' He's but a saft ane ; but I fear he'll no 
 hae ony thing on him this time.' 
 
 At this instant the fears of the pair of 
 pickpockets on this score were relieved 
 by a sight of Jock's purse. It caught 
 their eyes in a moment, and they viewed 
 it with a delight which gentlemen of their 
 profession alone can know. They felt as 
 sure of it as if it were already in their 
 pockets. Dropping all other speculation, 
 therefore, they now commenced dogging 
 Jock, who was fishing away with his purse 
 through the crowd, like an angler with his 
 fly, for the thief of his guineas or some of 
 his gang, whom he had a pretty shrewd 
 notion would not be far ofi". Jock, how- 
 
4G0 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ever, took care to keep the exhibition of 
 his purse within bounds. He took care 
 not to make an over frequent or suspicious 
 display of it, only occasionally, and then 
 returning it to a certain side pocket of 
 easy access. There was nothing, there- 
 fore, which Tinwald was at this moment 
 so anxious for as to feel a hand in the 
 said pocket ; and this was a gratification 
 which he was not long denied. A hand 
 was introduced, he felt it, and, turning 
 quickly round, he seized the person to 
 whom it belonged. 
 
 ' I ken ye, freen,' said Jock to his 
 prisoner, in a low whisper — ' I ken ye 
 perfectly weel. It was you that robbed 
 me o' forty guineas in a green net purse 
 at the last Candlemas Fair.' (All this 
 was said by Jock at a venture, but by 
 chance was true.) ' Now, I say, let me 
 hae the money back quietly and I'll tak 
 nae mair notice o' the matter ; but, an' 
 ye dinna, I'll immediately gie the alarm 
 an' hae ye apprehended. Sae tak yer 
 choice, freen. But, mind, there's a rope 
 round your neck : it's hanging at the very 
 least.' 
 
 ' Let me go, then, and follow me,' 
 replied the depredator, briefly, and in the 
 same low tone that he had been addressed. 
 
 Jock loosed his grasp, and keeping 
 close behind his man, who immediately 
 
 began threadin his way oot o' the crood, 
 followed him till they had cleared it ; 
 when, dreadin a sudden bolt, he cam up 
 close beside him ; an' thus the two held 
 on their way, till they cam to a retired 
 part o' the market place, when the thief 
 suddenly stopped, an', plungin his hand 
 into his bosom, drew oot a leathern bag, 
 from which he counted into the aston- 
 ished young farmer's hand forty golden 
 guineas. 
 
 Jock, confounded at his own success, 
 could scarcely believe his eyes when he 
 looked at the precious deposit in his hand ; 
 and, in the fulness o' his joy, insisted on 
 gien the thief half-a-mutchkin o' brandy 
 on the head o't. This, however, the 
 latter declined, and, in an instant after, 
 disappeared in the crowd ; an' Jock never 
 saw mair o' him. An' sae ends my storj'", 
 freens," added lang Jamie Turner. 
 
 '' An', by my feth, a richt guid ane — 
 a real clever ane," said the landlord, as he 
 filled glasses round, and, rising on his 
 little, short legs, drank to each and all of 
 the company " a soun sleep an' a blyth 
 waukenin." In two or three minutes 
 more, the kitchen of the Floshend Inn was 
 cleared of its tenants, and, for that night 
 at any rate, no more was heard in it the 
 sounds of revelry, nor the accompanying 
 glee of the gibe, or jest, or merry tale. 
 
 -^<o>^ 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 To us there are few things that appear 
 more melancholy or more afibcting than 
 the ruins of a deserted dwelling-house, 
 which the hand of time has unroofed and 
 laid prostrate. There is, we think, some- 
 thing impressive, sadly impressive, in its 
 cold, desolate apartments, now exposed to 
 the rain and the winds of heaven, its eye- 
 
 less windows, and dilapidated doorway — 
 nay, there is an interest excited even by 
 the traces of the fiistenings of the cupboard 
 on the wall, and of the fire in the chill, 
 gaping, and ruinous chimney. All, all 
 speak forcibly of decay, and tell of the 
 transitorincss of the things of this ephe- 
 meral world. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 461 
 
 In contemplating such scenes as this — 
 and hence, perhaps, the feelings we have 
 alluded to — the imagination sets to work, 
 and paints the happy groups that once 
 assembled around the then cheerful, but 
 now cold and desolate hearth, or recalls 
 the joyous laugh of the deserted mansion's 
 young inmates, with all the hilarious din 
 and bustle of a numerous and happy fami- 
 ly ; or, mayhap, it may dwell on the hopes 
 and fears of their elders, now both termi- 
 nated for ever. And the reverie is wound 
 up by the sad inquiry — " Where are they 
 all now V And the query is answered by 
 a gust of wind rushing, with melancholy 
 sound, through the deserted apartments, 
 and waving, in its progress, the long grass 
 and nettles with which they are over- 
 grown. 
 
 Nor are we sure that these feelings and 
 associations are confined to the ruins of 
 houses of note alone, to the deserted man- 
 sions of the great or the wealthy. In our 
 own case, at any rate, we are certain they 
 are not ; for we have felt them all, and 
 with equal force, when contemplating the 
 ruins of a cottage ; and on no occasion 
 were we more under their influence, than 
 when viewing the remains of such an 
 humble domicile as that we have alluded 
 to, in the course of an excursion, last 
 summer, through the wilds of Nithsdale. 
 But, then, we must confess, there was a 
 story, an affecting one, connected with the 
 lonely dwelling, which might, nay, which 
 must have added to the interest with which 
 we contemplated its ruins. .jThese ruins, 
 consisting of one gable^ 1an(iF^ small por- 
 tion of the side walls, together with the 
 remains of a low, loose stone dyke, that 
 once formed the boundary of the little 
 garden, or kail-yard, which was attached 
 to the house, are situated in a remote and 
 sequestered spot in the district above 
 named. 
 
 At the period of the story we are now 
 about to relate to our readers, the little 
 cottage of which we have spoken, was 
 inhabited by a widow woman of the name 
 
 of Riddel, and an only child, a son, of 
 about thirteen years of age. 
 
 Mrs. Riddel's husband, who was now 
 dead several years, was a poor but most 
 industrious and pious man, who wrought 
 at such country work as the neighborhood 
 afforded. His gains were, it will readily 
 be believed, but moderate ; vet a fru^-al, 
 abstemious, and exceedingly temperate 
 life, enabled him to purchase the cottage 
 he inhabited, with the garden attached to 
 it ; and, in time, to aJ!d to these posses- 
 sions a cow. But, beyond this, the poor 
 but worthy man was not permitted to in- 
 crease his store. Death cut short his days, 
 and left the widow and her son to reap the 
 benefit of his prudence and industry ; and 
 no small matter was this found, when 
 there was none other to assist them. The 
 cow, the cottage, and the garden, were to 
 them great riches. And thankful to her 
 God was the widow, for the mercies He 
 had bestowed on her ; not the least of 
 which was the happiness she found in her 
 boy, who was, to her, ail that she could 
 wish. James was, indeed, such a son as 
 a mother might well be proud of. He 
 was mild, dutiful, yet bold and active, and 
 gave promise of being more than usu- 
 ally handsome. He loved his mother 
 with the most sincere and devoted affec- 
 tion, and though only in his thirteenth 
 year, earned nearly the wages of a full- 
 grown man ; and, if any one had seen the 
 delight and exultation expressed in his 
 eye, as he poured his weekly wages into 
 his mother's lap, they would have felt as- 
 sured that these were the happiest mo- 
 ments of his life. 
 
 Thus, what with the little property she 
 possessed, and the earnings of her son. 
 Widow Riddel's lonely cottage presented 
 as pleasing a picture of comfort, in an 
 humble way, as might anywhere be seen ; 
 nor could two happier beings be found 
 within the county — we might extend it to 
 the kingdom — than the worthy widow and 
 her son. But inscrutable are the ways of 
 Providence — dark and inscrutable, in- 
 
462 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS, 
 
 deed, since they permitted all tliis humble 
 happiness to be blighted in an instant, and 
 ruin and desolation to overtake its unof- 
 fending possessors. 
 
 It was on a fine summer afternoon, in 
 the year 1746, about two months after the 
 battle of Culloden, that Widow Riddol, as 
 she sat knitting stockings on the little 
 rustic seat in the garden, which her son 
 had made for her accommodation, and 
 while the former was busily employed be- 
 side her in putting some seeds into the 
 ground, happening to look down into the 
 little strath or valley that lay almost im- 
 mediately before the cottage, saw what 
 was to her a very unusual and alarming 
 sight. This was a party of dragoons. 
 She had heard much of the cruelties and 
 atrocities that had been perpetrated by 
 the government troops, on the persons and 
 properties of the insurgents, w^hose hopes 
 had been laid prostrate at Culloden ; and 
 she was not ignorant of the military des- 
 potism which generally prevailed over the 
 kingdom in consequence of that victory. 
 But she had yet to learn, and the lesson 
 was now to be taught her by fearful ex- 
 perience, how indiscriminating was the 
 veno-eance of the ruthless and sano;uinary 
 ruffians, to whom the power of inflicting 
 chastisement had been intrusted. 
 
 On observing the soldiers, Widow Rid- 
 del immediately called her son's attention 
 to them, and wondered where they could 
 be going to. This was soon made plain 
 cnouo-h. In a moment after she herself 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Mercy on us, Jamie ! they're comin 
 here. What in a' the earth can they be 
 wantin .'" 
 
 Next minute, the dragoons were in front 
 of the cottao-e ; when one of them dis- 
 mounted, and advancing towards the wi- 
 dow, inquired if there were any rebels 
 skulking thereabouts. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, no," replied the terrified 
 woman.; " there's naebody o' that kind in 
 this quarter, I assure you." 
 
 " Well, well, so much the better, good 
 
 woman, for both you and them ; but, I say, 
 we're starving of hunger, old girl ; can ye 
 let's have something to eat .?" 
 
 " Blithely, sir, blithely," rejoined poor 
 Mrs. Riddel, delighted to find matters 
 taking so amicable a turn. '* I haena 
 muckle, sirs, but ye 're welcome to what I 
 hae." And she bustled into the cottage, 
 and, with the assistance of her son, brought 
 out a quantity of oaten cakes, cheese, and 
 sweet milk, on which the soldiers made a 
 hearty meal. 
 
 Now, after this kindness of the widow's, 
 or even without it, into whose head or 
 heart, but that of an incarnate fiend, or 
 monster in human shape, could it have 
 entered to do her a mischief i Yet such 
 a wretch was amongst the troopers who 
 now surrounded her humble dwelling, and 
 had partaken of her hospitality. Just 
 before the party started, the ruffian who 
 first addressed Mrs. Riddel, asked her, 
 with an afi"ected aii* of kindness, how she 
 lived, 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied the unsuspecting 
 widow, " the bit cow there," pointing to 
 the animal which was grazing at a little 
 distance, " an' the bit garden, wi' what 
 the laddie can earn, is a' that I hae to 
 depend upon ; but, wi' God's blessing, it's 
 eneuch, an' we are sincerely thankfu'." 
 
 To this affecting detail of her humble 
 resources, the villain made no reply ; but 
 drew a pistol from his holster, and, riding 
 up to the poor woman's cow, discharged it 
 through her head, when the animal in- 
 stantly fell down dead. Not satisfied with 
 this heartless atrocity, the ruffian leaped 
 the little garden wall, with his horse, and 
 deliberately trode down every growing 
 thing it contained ; and those that the feet 
 of his charger could not reach, he de- 
 stroyed with his sabro. 
 
 Having completed this unnaraeable vil- 
 lany, the monster rejoined his comrades, 
 laua-hins: and shoutins; out as he went, in 
 exultation at the deed. 
 
 " There, you old devil," he exclaimed 
 — " that will put it out of your power to 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 463 
 
 harbor any rascally rebels, or, if you do, 
 they and you must starve." 
 
 In an instant afterwards, the party rode 
 off, laughing heartily at the mischief done 
 by their comrade, of which they all seemed 
 to approve. 
 
 It would be a vain task to attempt to 
 depict the distress and misery of the be- 
 reaved widow, when she found herself thus 
 suddenly deprived of her all. This scene 
 is better left to the imagination of the 
 reader. Wringing her hands in bitter 
 agony, she rushed into the house, and 
 flung herself on her bed, where she gave 
 way to the sorrow that overwhelmed her. 
 From that bed she never again arose. A 
 violent illness, the consequence of dread- 
 fully excited and agitated feelings, seized 
 her, and in a few days, terminated her 
 existence. 
 
 During her illness, her poor boy never 
 left her bedside. There he remained night 
 and day, endeavoring to cheer the spirits 
 of his dying parent, and to make her look 
 lightly on the misfortunes that had befallen 
 them. 
 
 " Dinna, mother — dinna tak it sae much 
 to heart. • Never mind it, mother," he 
 would say; '' I am strong, and able to 
 work for you, and you shall never want 
 sae lang as I can earn a penny ; and I'll 
 put the garden into as guid order as ever 
 it was. It's no near sae much harmed as 
 ye think, mother ; and what's to hinder 
 me to buy ye a cow by and by, as weel as 
 my father did. I'll sune hae as much 
 wages as he had, and I'm sure I'll guide it 
 as weel, for your sake." And, on one 
 occasion, the poor boy, thinking to in- 
 crease the effects of the consolation he 
 was administering, added — " And wha 
 kens, mother, but I may yet meet the 
 villain somewhere, and be revenged o' 
 him for what he has dune to us !" 
 
 At these words, the dying woman, on 
 whose ear all the rest seemed to have 
 fallen unheard, suddenly raised herself on 
 her elbow, and, looking her son affection- 
 ately but earnestly in the face, said — 
 
 " My son, speak not of revenge ! It is 
 unbecoming a Christian; and I'm sure 
 such a spirit was never encouraged in you 
 either by yer worthy faither or by me. 
 Leave vengeance in the hands of God, 
 Jamie. He will deal with the destroyer in 
 His ain way and in His ain guid time. 
 Perhaps, my sou, the misguided man even 
 now repents o' what he has dune ; and if 
 he does, you surely would not seek to in- 
 crease his punishment, which maun be, in 
 such a case, a full atonement for a' that 
 he has dune ; for what pain, Jamie, can 
 equal that of an awakened conscience .^" 
 
 The boy was silenced hj this reproof; 
 but we can hardly say cleansed of the 
 spirit of revenge which had been kindled 
 in his youthful bosom against the author 
 of their ruin. 
 
 On the following day the widow expired ; 
 and, on the 4th thereafter, her son fol- 
 lowed her remains to the grave. But he 
 returned not again. At the conclusion of 
 the ceremony he suddenly disappeared, 
 and no one knew whither he had gone. 
 Days, weeks, months, and 3'ears, passed 
 away ; but no intelligence ever reached 
 the neighborhood of what destiny had be- 
 fallen the orphan boy. 
 
 Thirteen years after this, the famous 
 battle of Minden was fought by Prince 
 Ferdinand against the French. True ; 
 but what has that to do with the story of 
 the widow and her son ? 
 
 Patience, good reader, and you shall 
 hear. Associated with the army of Prince 
 Ferdinand, there was a large body of 
 British horse under Lord George Sack- 
 ville ; and these shared in the dangers and 
 glory of the victory. On the evening of 
 the day on which the battle was fought, a 
 party of these dragoons were assembled in 
 a tavern, where they were boasting loudly, 
 in their cups, of the feats they had per- 
 formed, when one of them, striking the 
 table fiercely with his clenched fist, swore, 
 that, when he was in Scotland, he had 
 done a more meritorious thing than any of 
 them. 
 
4G4 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " What was that, Tom — what was 
 that?" shouted out his companions at 
 once. 
 
 " Why, starving an old witch in Niths- 
 dalo, to be sure," replied the fellow. 
 " We first, you see — for there was a party 
 of us— ate up all she had, and then I paid 
 the reckoning by shooting her cow, and 
 riding down her greens." 
 
 '^ And don't you repent it .^" exclaimed 
 a young soldier, suddenly rising from his 
 seat at the upper end of the apartment, 
 and approaching the speaker, as he put 
 the question. " Don't you repent it .?" 
 
 " Repent what .?" said the ruffian, 
 fiercely. " Repent such a matter as that ! 
 No, I glory in it." 
 
 " Then, villain !" said the youth, un- 
 
 sheathing his sword — " know that that 
 woman was my mother ; and since you do 
 not repent the deed, you shall die for it. 
 Draw and defend yourself." 
 
 The dragoon sprang to his feet — a com- 
 bat ensued ; and, after two or three passes, 
 the latter was stretched lifeless on the 
 floor. 
 
 " Had you repented," said the youth, 
 looking towards the corpse as he sheathed 
 his sword, " I would have left you in the 
 hands of your God ; but since you did 
 not, I have made myself the instrument of 
 His Yen2;eance." 
 
 Youniz; Riddel afterwards rose to the 
 rank of Captain in the British service, and 
 greatly distinguished himself in the Ger- 
 man wars. 
 
 THE SCHEMER; 
 
 OR, THE CHEVIOT LAIRD OUTWITTED. 
 
 The triumphs of pure cunning, exercised j 
 for the gratification of purposes of selfish- 
 ness, are greatly fewer and less important 
 than is generally imagined. It has even 
 attained the form of a proverb, that a cun- 
 ning man is never more deceived than 
 when he attempts to deceive others. The 
 truth seems to be, that nature, which sup- 
 plies antidotes to her evils, has put almost 
 every one of her sons on guard against the 
 secret selfishness of his neighbors. What 
 displeases a person most at the sneaking 
 designs of the man of cunning, is not the 
 loss which is attempted to be caused to 
 him by an unjust appropriation, or some 
 wicked circumvention, but the thought 
 that he is considered by the schemer to be 
 less able than himself. This is the true 
 antidote, resolving indeed into self-love, 
 which has been so generally provided 
 
 ajrainst this most abominable of all traits 
 in the character of a man. Every one is 
 on his guard against an attempt to de- 
 preciate his understanding ; and the quick- 
 sightedness thus produced, enabling him 
 to discover the character of those who 
 wish to circumvent him, exposes, in the 
 long run, the man of wiles, and defeats 
 his purposes. 
 
 In consequence of this liability to dis- 
 cover}^, and of the intense disgust which 
 such discovery uniformly produces, the 
 man of wiles would require to be a man 
 of courage ; though, generally speaking, 
 it may be safely assumed that he is always 
 a coward. Continually exciting disgust, 
 he could not indeed live, where he cour- 
 ageous ; for the insults he is continually 
 receiving, would render it necessary for 
 him to go about with a pistol in his hand. 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 465 
 
 His preservation, therefore, lies in his 
 cowardice, which, joined to his character 
 of being cunning, j^laces him below the 
 contempt of mankind. He is allowed to 
 crawl about like a reptile ; and it is only 
 when he becomes troublesome, that he is 
 shaken off. To kill him, would generally 
 be too much trouble : yet, such is the 
 offensiveness of the creature, that the 
 foot is often placed upon him before one 
 is aware that he is brinsjino; himself within 
 
 CD O 
 
 the arm of authority, for no other reason 
 than the gratification of a little spleen. 
 
 We make these remarks, because we 
 wish that the moral of a story we intend 
 to lay before our readers, should be under- 
 stood as it is progressively read ; and we 
 are hopeful that its effect may be felt and 
 appreciated by all good and straightfor- 
 ward men. 
 
 The property of Corbetfield, on the 
 confines of the Cheviots, was, some two 
 hundred years ago, possessed by a person 
 of the name of William Dryhope. He in- 
 herited the property from his father, and 
 V7as reputed wealthy, as the estate was 
 considerable, and his expenditure limited 
 by his habits of penuriousness. He was 
 emphatically what is called a cunning man. 
 No project was ever pleasant to him, 
 which did not admit of some subtlety in 
 its accomplishment ; and even plain and 
 common acts of e very-day life were not 
 allowed to be performed in a plain and 
 straightforward way, but were invested 
 with a portion of that secrecy and under- 
 hand dealing which nature and practice had 
 made pleasant and familiar to him. Plain 
 dealinn; had somethina; in it offensive to his 
 crooked mind. It seemed as if he felt the 
 same dissatisfaction at the tame and unin- 
 teresting progress of a fair bargain, that 
 other people do at the tardy, winding 
 manoeuvres of the man of cunnino;. 
 
 His appearance quadrated with this 
 character. He had the bent body, the sly, 
 twinkling, lurking eye, the pawky smile, 
 the wheedling manner, the lying tongue, 
 and the ready giggling laugh of his tribe. 
 
 VOL. a. G7 
 
 He paid no great attention to his external 
 appearance. His mind was too much oc- 
 cupied by the formation and working out 
 of schemes, to leave him either time or 
 inclination to perform decently the duties 
 of his personal economy. His continued 
 contriving and brooding, rendered him thin 
 and emaciated ; and his timid slouched 
 walk, and side looks, gave him the appear- 
 ance of a weasel searching for an aperture 
 in an old turf-dike to escape from the eyes 
 of men. 
 
 That extraordinary peculiarity of cun- 
 ning men — the pride of being thought 
 cunning — attached to him, as to all the 
 rest of his kind. At the very time he was 
 scheming against his friend, he would 
 boast to him slily of his slyness — conceal- 
 ing, of course, with great, though often 
 ineffectual care, the details of the opera- 
 tions he was at the time carrying on. 
 This pride of circumvention, which is 
 found in all cunning men, is surely an ex- 
 traordinary gift of nature — justifying the 
 ways of Providence, by counteracting 
 what would otherwise be one of the great- 
 est evils of man. The schemer is the de- 
 stroyer of his own schemes, by putting 
 every man upon his guard, and telling, be- 
 fore he stabs, that he intends to slay. 
 
 By the effects of this evil propensity, 
 or rather by the greed which accompanies 
 it — for cunning does comparatively little 
 evil after it is known, and it cannot be 
 concealed — Dryhope scraped together a 
 considerable fortune, independently of 
 Corbetfield. His wife had died some 
 years after his marriage, leaving him a son 
 and daughter, Hector and Maria, who 
 were often ashamed of the ways of their 
 father, though filial duty constrained them 
 to conceal them ; at least, to construe 
 them in such a way as to take from them 
 their more disgusting and obnoxious fea- 
 tures. 
 
 Having made the most of every oppor- 
 tunity which chance had thrown in his 
 way, and turned all things to account, as 
 far as his ability would, under the opposi- 
 
46G 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 tion produced by the knowledge of his 
 character, permit — he, after his son and 
 daughter had arrived at a marriao-eable 
 condition, began to contrive how he could 
 best turn them to advantage. This was a 
 notable object for the exertion of his abili- 
 ties and he was determined to make them 
 exhibit their highest mettle. He had ex- 
 pended a great deal of money (in his esti- 
 mation) upon the two youngsters ; and it 
 would run hard with him if he had not 
 skill sufficient to draw out of their marriages 
 a proper reimbursement. How otherwise 
 could he be paid ? For their affections he 
 cared nothing — their duty was of no avail 
 to him — they were his debtors for their 
 maintenance and education ; and, as they 
 could not liquidate the claims themselves, 
 it must be his policy to get some persons 
 to do that for them. These were high 
 aims, and undoubtedly worthy of the 
 elevated genius of a man of cunning, who 
 conceived that no person in the county 
 possessed equal powers of outwitting his 
 neighbors. 
 
 In regard to his daughter, Maria, who 
 was a very superior girl, he expected to 
 drive a bargain with a young proprietor, 
 not far distant, of the name of Walter 
 Tait, whose property of Oldbattle, would, 
 if settled upon her and her children, form 
 a very handsome acquisition to his family. 
 He wished this marriage for several rea- 
 sons : — The first was, that Tait being a 
 dissolute youth, would, in all probability, 
 soon die, and leave Maria mistress of the 
 property for herself and her children. 
 The second was, that, if he lived, he 
 would become, from his ductility, a very 
 good subject for the operations of Dry- 
 hope's schemes, whereby he would be en- 
 abled to take a great part of his property 
 from him, and attach it to his own estate 
 of Corbetfield. 
 
 There was another reason which operat- 
 ed upon him, in endeavoring to get this 
 match accelerated. He held a bond from 
 the father of Hugh Templeton of Temple- 
 ton, another neighbor, for 10,000 merks — 
 
 an immense sum in those days — but which 
 he had long considered to be little better 
 than a bad debt. The lands of Temple- 
 ton had been burdened, previous to Dry- 
 hope's security, by the schemes of a writer, 
 who thought it all fair to fight Dry hope 
 with his own weapons. The sum had, it 
 seems, never been all advanced to old 
 Templeton; but he, in the necessities pro- 
 duced by youthful indiscretions, had, to 
 induce Dryhope to lend him 6,000 merks, 
 promised to give him secm-ity over his 
 lands for a sum of 10,000 merks. Tem- 
 pleton's attorney, knowing the usurious 
 nature of the bargain, borrowed for his 
 client 4,000 merks from the father of 
 Walter Tait, giving him a bond for the 
 same ; and thus Dryhope, keen to get his 
 transaction finished, and overlookino; a 
 proper investigation, was only a second 
 creditor over the property. 
 
 This bond to Dryhope young Temple- 
 ton could not discharge, and the lands 
 were not of sufficient value to pay it. 
 But, as Walter Tait was entirely ignorant 
 of the bad credit and reduced circum- 
 stances of Templeton, Dryhope flattered 
 himself that he would get his intended son- 
 in-law to take the 10,000 merk bond as 
 the dowry of his daughter IMaria ; and 
 in this way he would accomplish two great 
 points ; first, he would get, for a false 
 dowry, a large jointure to his daughter ; 
 and, secondly, he would accomplish his 
 ardent wish, in the event of Tait dying, of 
 getting the envied lands of Templeton 
 into his family. 
 
 As Dryhope was upon the eve of making 
 this offer to Tait, who was enamored of 
 Maria, a circumstance occurred which 
 made him pause. Templeton was, it 
 seems, making love to a daughter of 
 Edward Whitten of Eccleshall ; and he 
 was, at same time, intimate with a daugh- 
 ter of James Harvey of Moorfield — both 
 neighborinfir lairds. This fact was com- 
 municated to Dryhope, who immediately 
 saw how it would affect his interests. If 
 Templeton married a wife with money, he 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 467 
 
 would tlien "be able to pay Dryhope his 
 10,000 merks, a most important circum- 
 stance, which would afford to him ample 
 means for makinG; a baro-ain with Walter 
 Tait. But it was necessary to ascertain 
 which of the two damsels would likely 
 bring Templeton the most money. 
 
 To ascertain this, Dryhope set about 
 inquiring into the circumstances of Whit- 
 ten and Harvey. This was immediately 
 accomplished, and in such a way as a man 
 of stratagem would, according to the bent 
 of his nature, adopt. After a great deal 
 of trouble, many thrcadings of narrow 
 channels, and crooked and dishonorable 
 means, he ascertained that Whitten was 
 not in such circumstances as would afford 
 any dowry to his daughter at all ; but 
 Harvey was reputed very wealthy, and had 
 been heard to say that he would portion 
 his daughter with 15,000 merks, if he got 
 for her a husband to his satisfaction. 
 
 Having got this most important infor- 
 mation, Dryhope set his wits to work, with 
 a view to turn it to the best advantage. 
 He was slightly acquainted with Eccles- 
 hall, and resolved to call on him. This 
 he accordingly did. Selfishness produces 
 boldness, if not impudence ; and Dryhope, 
 as he rang the bell of the stately mansion, 
 muttered to himself that he must trust to 
 chance and his own invention for a success- 
 ful interview, as well as for the means of 
 accounting for a visit, the first he had made 
 to the family. 
 
 *' Hoo is my muckle-honored neebor, 
 Ecclesha'.?" he cried out, as he advanced 
 to shake the laird by the hand. " They're 
 a sad plague thae turnpikes. Ye ken the 
 auld loan that rins doon frae the green 
 burn to the auld kist, as they ca' the big 
 stane at the back o' the birk wood — they're 
 threatenin to mak that a turnpike ; an', as 
 itboundsyour property an' mine, we maun 
 concock some plan for settlin the marches 
 for dootless they'll be for makin the road 
 broader, an' either takin frae you or frae 
 me." 
 
 " I have heard nothing of this, Mr. 
 
 Dryhope," answered Eccleshall ; " and I 
 rather think you are wrong, for my under- 
 standing is, that the road is to be made 
 through the property of Templeton, to the 
 westward." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear't," said Dryhope, 
 who knew the fact as well as Eccleshall, 
 " for I'm just as ill able to boar a loss o' 
 that kind as Templeton." 
 
 ^' It would not affect either of you much, 
 I presume," said Eccleshall. " He has a fine 
 property, and you are known to be rich." 
 
 " It's no my business, Ecclesha'," said 
 Dryhope, " to interfere wi' the affairs o' 
 my neebors. There's nae doot that Tem- 
 pleton has a fine property, an' they say he 
 wadna care to sell it — but it's an auld 
 sayin', ' He wha buys has need o' a hun- 
 dred een — he wha sells has enough if ho 
 has ane.' " 
 
 " I do not understand you, Mr. Dry- 
 hope," said Eccleshall; "I never heard 
 Mr. Templeton say he intended to sell 
 his estate ; but, if he did, I suppose he 
 would get a good price for it. I am, how- 
 ever, somewhat interested in this gentle- 
 man's affairs, and beg you to explain 
 manfully your meaning." 
 
 " It's no my wish, and Heaven kens it's 
 no my practice, to deal in secrecy," said 
 Dryhope. " Words wound aften mair 
 than swords ; but I maun do myseP the 
 justice to think that, when I do speak, I 
 ken what to say. When a blind man 
 leads anither blind man, they baith fa' 
 into the ditch. Dryhope can see as far as 
 ither men (with a wink), and if I thought 
 ye were muckle interested in the affairs o' 
 Templeton, I could maybe gie ye a hint — 
 for there's naebody kens better the heat 
 o' the fire than he wha has been burnt." 
 
 " That is still all a mystery to me, my 
 good friend," said Eccleshall. " I have 
 told you that I am interested in Temple- 
 ton's affairs. He is courting my daughter ; 
 and I should like to know, since you have 
 roused my suspicions, whether his property 
 is free and unburdened, and, generally, 
 the state of his finances." 
 
468 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " The looker-on sees mair tlian the 
 player," answered Dryhope, winkmg cun- 
 ningly. " 1 heard as muckle as what ye 
 say. Ye couldna hae applied to a better 
 man than me ; for it is guid, they say, to 
 learn at anither man's cost, an' true ser- 
 vice hangs mair by the time than the 
 mode. Between you an' me, Templeton 
 awes me as muckle as wad buy his pro- 
 perty twice owre ; an' he has mony other 
 debts on his land, besides personal debts 
 to a maist enormous amount. He has tried 
 to conceal a' this — but grey cats see i'the 
 dark ; an' I am glad I can, in this affair, 
 do ye a service. Ye may hae something 
 i' yer power as regards me — ac hand 
 washes anither, ye ken, winking again. 
 
 The servant here came in, and said that 
 Mr. Walter Tait was in waiting. 
 
 " Tell him I shall be with him present- 
 ly," said Eccleshall. Turning to Dry- 
 hope — " Walter has few debts, 1 should 
 imagine ; but he is in bad health, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 " Wha lives weel, lives lang," said 
 Dryhope, anxious to create some suspicion 
 also, against Tait, whom he himself wished 
 to catch for Maria. " There's an auld 
 sayin', very common, I am tauld, in Ger- 
 many — ' Gluttony and drunkenness hae 
 killed mair men than the sword.' I am 
 very sorry for Walter, puir lad, and wad 
 be the last man to injure him ; but ye hae 
 gien me some o' yer confidence the day, 
 and I'm bound to reward ye wi' mine. 
 Truth may be blamed, but never can be 
 shamed. I hae gien ye a hint aboot Wat- 
 tie, puir lad, that may be o' service to ye. 
 He wha has wisdom is twice blessed." 
 
 Eccleshall — who was one of those men 
 who, being honest himself, believes all 
 others to be so — was much affected by the 
 character he had heard of his friend and 
 neighbor, Mr. Tait. He believed it, and 
 thanked Dryhope for his kind inten- 
 tions. 
 
 ^' This is quite new to me," said he. 
 " I have always understood that Walter's 
 bad health prevented him from exceeding. 
 
 or even indulging to any extent, in the 
 pleasures, far less the luxuries of life." 
 
 " Bad health may be the effect o' in- 
 temperance," answered Dryhope. " So- 
 briety secures us against distempers, and 
 sweetens life ; the harvest o' diseases is 
 reaped frae the seeds o' intemperance. 
 Watty's faither died owre sune. We ken 
 hoo to tak care o' our bairns" — another 
 wink. 
 
 " You will teach me to take care of 
 mine, at all events," said Eccleshall ; 
 " and I am certainly obliged to you for 
 the open, frank, and gentleman-like way 
 in which you have warned me of the rocks 
 of poverty and dissipation. I shall not 
 soon forget it." 
 
 '' I'm no greedy o' thanks, Ecclesha'," 
 said Dryhope ; " for I aye think the re- 
 ward o' a guid conscience is the best re- 
 muneration for a guid office. I can safely 
 say, mine is a guid ane ; for I aye carry 
 aboot wi' me the proverb — ' that the de- 
 bauchin o' the conscience is the source o' 
 a' our errors and crimes.' Ill as puir 
 Watty is, some ca' him even waur than I 
 hae said ; for his auld butler said to me, 
 ae day, wi' a wink — ' A debauched con- 
 science is waur than a debauched stamach.' 
 But I never like a statement that has a 
 wink ahint it. The cooard looks ahint 
 him, the brave man afore him ; but a leiar 
 shuts ane o' his een. Yet auld George is 
 an honest chiel, too." 
 
 Eccleshall was not so blind as not to 
 see that Dryhope was himself a great 
 winker ; but this did not open his eyes. 
 He again thanked Dryhope for his atten- 
 tion, and the latter took his leave. As he 
 went out, he saw Walter Tait standing 
 on the landing-place, having preferred 
 enjoying the air to being shut up in an 
 antechamber. He flew and shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 " I'm glad to see ye lookin sae weel, 
 i\Ir. Walter. JMaria was just inquirin' 
 about ye, yesterday. Hoo dinna ye come 
 doon an' see us ,'' Wha's sae welcome as 
 you } I hae just been speakin to Ecclesha' 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 469 
 
 about the new turnpike. I am glad to 
 tliink it's no comin' aff his land ; for I un- 
 derstand little compensation will be gien ; 
 and (taking his friend by the button, and 
 talking low) ye ken he's novery weel able 
 to bear even a sma loss like that. I was 
 tellin him, in that jocular easy Way I can 
 tak wi' him, that he should get aff his 
 dochter to some sillered chap, wha micht 
 assist him wi' a few hunder merks. My 
 heart bluids to see a guid man in diffiqual- 
 ties ; an' I gae him that advice, contained 
 in the auld proverb — ' They wha dinna 
 ken hoo to ask, dinna ken hoo to gie.' 
 Ye ken what I mean, eh ?" 
 
 Tait, who knew Dryhope's cunning, did 
 not give any decided tokens of acquies- 
 cence in the truth of this speech ; and 
 knowing that Eccleshall was waiting for 
 him, he promised, in a few words, to call 
 and see Maria, and went into the house. 
 
 Dryhope conceived that he had managed 
 this interview with the greatest adroitness ; 
 and, as he went down the avenue, felici- 
 tated himself upon his powers of manoeu- 
 vring, ejaculating, at intervals, while he 
 rubbed his hands — " Thae twa lads are 
 peppered." So much was he occupied 
 with the exultation of having, as he 
 thought, outwitted three men, and blasted 
 the prospects of two, that he did not even 
 see the people on the road, who stood and 
 stared as they saw a man running and rub- 
 bing his hands, and saying to himself, 
 " Thae twa lads are peppered." Cunning 
 has indeed only one eye, although it thinks 
 itself possessed of the hundred which be- 
 longed, heretofore, to Argus, the watch- 
 man of lo. The delightful music of Mer- 
 cury closed up the whole hundred ; sel- 
 fishness may well close up one. 
 
 The next step to be taken by Dryhope, 
 was to pay a visit to Mr. Harvey ; whose 
 daughter was, as he had heard, also in the 
 eye of Templeton. He made no scruple 
 to call there ; and, being afraid of losing 
 time, he directed his steps to Moorfield, 
 where he found the proprietor occupied in 
 his garden. In this interview, Dryhope 
 
 had to encounter one who knew his true 
 character, though the wily laird himself 
 thought he was altogether unknown to 
 anybody ; another weakness of the en- 
 grossing quality of selfish cunning. 
 
 *' I hope Moorfield is in guid health,'' 
 began Dryhope ; " I hae like to see my 
 friends weel ; for health gaes afore riches, 
 an' naebody kens better what is guid than 
 he wha has endured evil. I mysel' ken 
 what disease is. The garden is better for 
 recreation than the drawin' room. So the 
 turnpike is to gae through Templeton's 
 property, after a', is it V 
 
 '' I believe it is," answered Moorfield, 
 waiting to see the next turn. 
 
 " Weel, better he than anither," said 
 Dryhope. *' Puir Ecclesha' couldna hae 
 borne it sae weel." 
 
 ^' Do you think so !" said Moorfield, 
 with curiosity — knowing that Templeton's 
 property was burdened with the two bonds, 
 which, however, did not affect his estimate 
 of the character of his friend. " Is Tem- 
 pleton not in debt } I'm very glad to 
 hear it. Somebody said he was owing you 
 money ; but I presume it is false, like all 
 the rest of these flying statements." 
 
 '' No a penny, Moorfield — no a penny !" 
 said Dryhope, quickly. " Sae far as I 
 ken, the property is, as regards the young 
 man's acts, as free as the blue firmament 
 when there's nae clouds i' the air. I was 
 just sayin' to Ecclesha', he wud mak a 
 fine match for his dochter ; an', atween 
 you an' me (one of his winks), it wad be 
 a guid thing for baith o' them. Dinna ye 
 think sae yerseP .^" 
 
 As Dryhope put this question to Moor- 
 field, he directed upon him that peculiar 
 look with which a cunning man watches 
 the effect of a well-framed interrogatory. 
 Moorfield read the twinkle with the great- 
 est ease. 
 
 " An excellent thing,'' replied Moor- 
 field ; " and I'll tell you another, nearly 
 as good — What do you think of my Ger- 
 trude and your Hector .'" 
 
 This did not suit Dryhope, who had a 
 
470 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 lady in bis eye for his son ; and he was 
 discomfited by the nonchalance with which 
 his trying question was received. 
 
 *' Ye '11 no be thinkin' o' Templeton for 
 Gertrude .■^" he again asked. 
 
 " That depends upon circumstances," 
 replied Moorfield. " If I could hear that 
 he was entirely free of debt, I would have 
 no objections to him for a son-in-law. He 
 is a very fine young man ; but it would be 
 hard to pay 15,000 merks to his credit- 
 ors." 
 
 " Sae it wad, sae it wad," said Dryhope, 
 in anxiety; " but he has nae debt — no a 
 penny o' debt — I hae it upon guid autho- 
 rity. Ye may rely upon it. But ye're 
 richt to be sure. ]\Iony a ane gaes oot to 
 seek wool, an' comes hame shorn. I hae 
 a kind o' regard for Templeton, as weel 
 as for yersel ; an' if I could satisfy ye wi' 
 regard to yer scruples, 1 wad, for the sake 
 o' his faither, exercise my puir faculties to 
 that efi"ect." 
 
 '' I will be much obliged to you, then, 
 my good friend," said Moorfield, fighting 
 him with his own weapons, " if you will 
 make all the inquiry in your power, and 
 inform me whether you can learn of any 
 debts due by young Templeton. If I am 
 perfectly satisfied of his solvency, I may 
 indulge his suit with my Gertrude." 
 
 " I will — I will," replied Dryhope, 
 eagerly ; and, after some general conver- 
 sation, he retired. 
 
 Dryhope, as he went home, thought he 
 had also duped Moorfield. He had said 
 that Templeton was not his debtor. There 
 was no danger, he conceived, in that, be- 
 cause, in the first place, it was old Tem- 
 pleton who granted him the bond ; and, 
 though the young man was no doubt liable 
 to him, yet he could scarcely be said to be 
 his debtor in the bond. This wretched 
 subtlety pleased him beyond measure. 
 And, secondly, anything he could say to 
 Moorfield, would not affect his claim, 
 constituted by a written bond, against 
 Templeton. This was, he thought, inge- 
 nious reasoning ; and, if he was safe, he 
 
 did not care how far he went in the manu- 
 facture and issuing of lies. 
 
 Moorfield, with no cunning, had more 
 judgment. iSext morning, he despatched 
 the following letter to Dryhope : — 
 
 " Dear Sir — I thank you for the ex- 
 treme kindness you evinced towards me 
 and my daughter, when you called here 
 yesterday. I have been curious to know 
 upon what authority you stated that Hugh 
 Templeton was free from debt ; and, in 
 particular, I am anxious to know whether 
 or not Templeton granted you a bond for 
 10,000 merks. I have heard such a thing 
 stated, and wish to satisfy myself of the 
 truth or falsehood of it. If your answer 
 to me is satisfactory, and I am certiorated 
 of the fact that Templeton owes you no- 
 thing, I will give him 15,000 merks with 
 my daughter as her tocher. 
 
 " I am, dear sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 "James Harvey." 
 
 This letter was written by Moorfield, 
 with the view of getting Dryhope com- 
 mitted to paper. He could not answer for 
 its being attended with any success ; but 
 he knew that Dryhope wanted payment of 
 his money, and might go a great deal far- 
 ther than prudence warranted, in order to 
 fulfil that object. 
 
 The moment Dryhope got this letter, 
 he began to consider of what he was about. 
 He was too quick- sighted not to see that 
 he was upon dangerous ground. Conver- 
 sation, where there were no witnesses, was 
 one thino- — writinsrwas another. Besides, 
 he verified the characteristic of his own 
 disposition, by suspecting there was some 
 attempt at trick on the part of Moorfield. 
 He accordingly called for his horse, and 
 rode away to town with a view to consult 
 his agent. Like all cunning diplomatists, 
 however, he would not, indeed he could 
 not, tell his attorney, who happened to be 
 an honest man, his whole case ; but, like 
 many fools who consult doctors and law- 
 yers, and think they can work by the 
 powers of their own minds, on answers to 
 particular questions and special interroga- 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 471 
 
 tories, put a number of hypotiietical cases, 
 on whicli he asked opinions. The princi- 
 pal of these was — whether a person, who 
 had a bond from another man's father, 
 could safely, and without endangering his 
 debt, say to another person, an acquaint- 
 ance of the son's, that he, the son, was not 
 a debtor specified in the bond. The at- 
 torney's answer was quick and sound. 
 " No," he replied; "there is «o law for 
 any such thing ; neither will the state- 
 ment be against the truth, for the young 
 man's name is not mentioned in the bond, 
 and, therefore, he is not the specified 
 debtor in the bond." 
 
 With this answer, Dryhope came away, 
 delighted with the scheme which he was 
 now forming of circumventing Moorfield, 
 and catching him in his own snare — the 
 very highest triumph of cunning ; for no 
 cunning man can bear the idea that there 
 is any person in the world more sly than 
 himself. In riding home, the scheme was 
 partly formed. His deep study was only 
 at times interrupted by a stumble of his 
 horse. On reaching home, he retired to 
 his study, and sat with his hand on his 
 brow for more than an hour. His object 
 was to write such a letter to Moorfield as 
 would save his right to his bond, and yet, 
 at the same time, secure payment of his 
 debt. The object was grand — the means 
 lay in his wonderful mind. What was too 
 diiScult for his subtlety.^ Had he not 
 humbugged one half of the world already ? 
 and who had humbugged him } None. 
 W^hy then have any timidity, while the 
 proverb maintained its force, that " a 
 faint heart never gained a fair lady." To 
 succeed in this enterprise, would stamp his 
 character for ever as a man of parts. It 
 would do more — it would make a bad debt 
 good, and overturn the scheme of one who 
 had the boldness to try him with his own 
 weapons. These reflections produced a 
 kind of enthusiasm, or, at least, some 
 emotion as nearly analogous to that as the 
 mind of a cunning man, with its cold cal- 
 culating views, is capable of feeling ; and, 
 
 seizing the pen, he wrote the first draft of 
 an answer to Moorfield. Having finished 
 the rough sketch, he wished to allow it to 
 lie until his fancy cooled — a common 
 practice with him when engaged in a wily 
 scheme. He dined, and came back to his 
 importantwork again. He read his draft. 
 It was too unguarded, and required the 
 application of greater caution. Another 
 copy was written, and many more. At 
 last, he thought the following sufficient to 
 realize his scheme : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I beg to say that I re- 
 ceived your letter ; and, in answer thereto, 
 I now inform you that Hugh Templeton, 
 Esq., presently of Templeton, never signed 
 any bond to me for 10,000 merks, or any 
 other sum. I, therefore, conceive you 
 are perfectly safe, and will warrant you to 
 dower Miss Gertrude Harvey, your daugh- 
 ter, with the sum you have stated. I have 
 particularly to request, that, as this an- 
 swer is given in confidence, no intimation 
 thereof shall be made to Hugh Templeton. 
 " I am yours, sincerely, 
 
 "W. Dryhope." 
 
 This letter was dispatched, and Dry- 
 hope thought he had executed a most 
 notable scheme of clever circumvention. 
 
 Unfortunately, he had hitherto been too 
 successful. Templeton, having been 
 doubtful of the intentions of Moorfield in 
 regard to him, had been visiting Miss 
 Whitten with the intention of exciting the 
 jealousy of Gertrude Harvey, and thus 
 working on the father, through the pain 
 and anxiety of the daughter. He had 
 been, however, heard to say that he 
 could fancy Miss Whitten ; and, in the 
 event of not getting Miss Harvey, he 
 would pay his serious addresses to her. 
 The visit of Dryhope, however, put an end 
 to Templeton's hopes in the family of Ec- 
 cleshall ; and it was equally efficacious in 
 expelling from that house, Walter Tait ; 
 for Eccleshall, seeing no motive, on the 
 part of Dryhope, for making the state- 
 ments he had done regarding these two 
 gentlemen, unfortunately considered them 
 
472 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 to be true ; and his manner at their next 
 visit having partaken of his feelings, soon 
 exhibited to his visitors that their company 
 was not desired. They accordingly gave 
 up visiting Eccleshall ; but they were left 
 entirely ignorant of the cause of that cold- 
 ness on the part of their host, which had 
 rendered it imperative on them to cease 
 their visits to his house. 
 
 Driven from that resource, Tait called 
 more frequently at Corbetfield, where he 
 was received by Dryhope with the greatest 
 attention, and treated with the most syco- 
 phantish adulation. The efforts of the 
 father, however, would have had little 
 effect on the visitor, if the smiles of the 
 daughter had not reached the heart of the 
 lover, Tait loved Maria, and his love 
 was requited. He hated old Dryhope for 
 his low cunning and duplicity ; and he 
 loved his daughter for her beauty and 
 simplicity. Dryhope saw the courtship 
 advancing with singular pleasure ; for he 
 flattered himself that he was the match- 
 maker, and that Tait was merely acting 
 upon the springs which moved his various 
 puppets. He hugged himself in the idea, 
 that, if he had not poisoned the ear of 
 Eccleshall against him, he would have 
 married Miss Whitten ; thus enhancing 
 the merit of his work, by contemplating 
 what might have happened, if he had not 
 brought his genius to play in that particu- 
 lar direction. 
 
 To add to his joy, it was announced in 
 the newspapers, that Hugh Templeton had 
 led to the altar, Gertrude Harvey ; and 
 the floating breath of public gossip embel- 
 lished the statement with the fact, that 
 the bridegroom had got paid down to him 
 15,000 merks, as the tocher of the damsel. 
 This completed the coup de main of the 
 ambidextrous Dryhope. All he had now 
 to do, was to get payment of his bond; 
 but, before having recourse to any mea- 
 sures in that quarter, he wished to get the 
 marriage completed between Tait and his 
 own daughter, Maria, Tait was quite 
 aoreeable that it should be solemnized 
 
 immediately ; and Maria had no objections 
 to urge. Dryhope conceived that, after 
 what had passed between him and jVIoor- 
 field, it might save his faith, if he assigned 
 away his bond to some third party ; and 
 a better opportunity for effecting this 
 purpose could not be found than in the 
 marriage of his dauofht^r with Tait. 
 
 He took, accordingly, the first oppor- 
 tunity of having a conversation with his 
 expected son-in-law, on the subject of the 
 contract. 
 
 " Ye ken, Walter," began the ambi- 
 dexter, " that I hae but little lyin money, 
 and canna, therefore, gie ye ony great 
 portion wi' Maria ; but I can maybe do 
 better than gie ye cash, o' which ye stand 
 in nae great need. Ye ken I hae a bond 
 for 10,000 merks frae Templeton, wha is 
 just noo married to Gertrude Harvey, the 
 heiress o' Moorfield, wha has brought him 
 15,000 merks, and wha, when her father 
 dies, will hae a right to his property, ana 
 o' the best in these parts. Noo, 1 ken 
 that ye hae lang had an ee on Templeton, 
 owre which ye hauld a bond for 4,000 
 merks. The property lies weel into ye, 
 and, nae doubt, would mak a bonny ad- 
 dition to yer ain. Ye canna get it, how- 
 ever, wi' the mere pith o' yer ain security ; 
 but, wi' the assistance o' mine, ye may 
 hae some chance o' prevailin on Temple- 
 ton, to resign it to ye upon a fair bargain, 
 payin ye, at the same time, the difference 
 atween its price and the amount o' the 
 twa bonds. Noo, I'll gie ye my bond if 
 ye will pay me 4,000 merks, and provide 
 the half o' the rents o' yer property as a 
 jointure to Maria." 
 
 This statement appeared to Tait to be 
 fair enough ; for he would much rather 
 take the bond than the money, for the 
 very reasons stated b}' Dryhope, who had 
 indeed fathomed the wishes of his son-in- 
 law, and laid his schemes to suit them in 
 the way stated. Tait told him that he 
 had no objection to the terms he proposed, 
 and, in a short time, the marriage con- 
 tract was drawn out and signed, and the 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 473 
 
 marj-iage solemnized. Dryliope took care 
 to receive liis 4,000 meiks, leaving to 
 lait the recovery of the money from 
 Temj^leton in the best way he could, re- 
 commending to him, however, to pursue 
 Templeton, while he was, as he said, flush ; 
 and especially, and by all means, to seize 
 him, when under the dementing influence 
 of the honeymoon, when he would rather 
 pay than pine in prison. 
 
 In the meantime, Hector Dryhope was 
 taken by his father, and introduced to a 
 rich lady of color, who lived in the neigh- 
 boring town, with a view to his courting 
 her. and securing her fortune with her 
 cream-colored person. Hector went to 
 please his father ; but he had no intention 
 of complying with his request. ' He had a 
 choice of his own, which he did not intend 
 to renounce ; at least he could see nothing 
 in the West Indian to make him forget 
 his own fair country-woman. His choice 
 came out sooner than was expected. 
 
 His father, while one day walking at a 
 little distance from Corbetfield, met 
 Hector and Miss Whitten walking to- 
 gether. The young couple seemed to be 
 caught ; and truly they were, for the old 
 man went abruptly up to them, and asked 
 his son, in the presence of the mistress of 
 his afiections, who the lady was with 
 whom he presumed to walk, after he had 
 introduced him to his future wife. Stung 
 to the quick by this remark, made in the 
 presence of a lady to whom he had made 
 honorable proposals, the young man for- 
 got his filial duties, and turning suddenly 
 on his father, with fiery eyes, and a coun- 
 tenance flushed with anger, told him that 
 this lady, taking her by the hand, was the 
 mistress of his heart, and would be the 
 sharer of his fortunes. Dryhope imme- 
 diately answered, that he would cut him 
 off with a shilling, if he presumed to 
 marry that lady, or any other lady, 
 against his advice and approbation. 
 
 For a long time the son and father 
 would not speak. Dryhope was here 
 caught in his own snare ; for, by turning 
 
 Tait and Templeton from JNIr. Whitten's 
 house, he had kept his daughter free for 
 the addresses of his own son. There was 
 no money to be had with Miss Whitten ; 
 and, if Hector married her, one of his 
 schemes would be frustrated. In the heat 
 of his anger he flew to Eccleshall, and 
 found the laird in his study. 
 
 " 1 am come, Ecclesha'," said Dryhope, 
 bowing, " to put ye on yer guard against 
 the evil intentions o' my neer-do-weel 
 son. Hector, wha I understand, is courting 
 your daughter. 1 think it proper to gie 
 you premonition o' the fack, which I 
 proved by the testimony o' my ain senses 
 some days syne, in the birk wood, at the 
 foot o' the priest's mound. A son wha 
 disobeys his ain faith er winna be dutiful 
 to the faither o' his wife ; and a bad son 
 canna mak a ofuid husband. Hector is a 
 spendthrift, as the holes in my exchequer 
 may we el testify ; and I wad be sorry to 
 think that, after having robbed a parent, 
 he should extend his practices to the 
 strong boxes o' my neighbors. Deny him 
 yer dochter's hand, and ye will benefit 
 yersel, yer dochter, my son, and me !" 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Dryhope," said Eccles- 
 hall, " can you tell me whether I am to 
 place confidence in a man's words, or in 
 his actions } If Walter Tait was too 
 debauched for my daughter, why was he 
 pure enough for yours } If Hugh Tem- 
 pleton was unfit for my daughter, why 
 was he by you considered proper for 
 Gertrude Harvey } These are questions 
 to which I require an answer, before I pay 
 any attention to the character you have 
 now given your son." 
 
 It had never occurred to Dryhope, in 
 his anger, that Eccleshall had this good 
 answer to make him. He was taken by 
 surprise, and all his attempts at a proper 
 justification resolved into mutterings and 
 exclamations, and a mass of unmeaning 
 jargon. Eccleshall did not deign to 
 answer him. Having rung the bell, he 
 ordered his servant to see Dryhope to the 
 door — an order very speedily obeyed. 
 
474 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 As he went down the same avenue where 
 he had formerly indulged in such vehement 
 expressions of joy in the supposed success 
 of his schemes, he now exhibited a very 
 different appearance. He bit his lips and 
 clenched his hands, muttering impreca- 
 tions loud and deep, exclaiming that he 
 would rather have seen both Tait and 
 Templeton married to EccleshalPs daugh- 
 ter, if the laws would have permitted it, 
 than his son should, by marrying a proud 
 beggar, sacrifice the prospects held out to 
 him in the match which he had taken so 
 much pain.s to settle and mature. On 
 arriving at home, his frenzy knew no 
 bounds. He even struck his son, who, 
 well disposed and even kind to his parent, 
 received, with sorrow, the outpourings of 
 his indignation. 
 
 Next day, and while yet his anger was 
 burning with nearly unabated fury, he got 
 a call from Moorfield's agent, who inform- 
 ed him that, if Walter Tait, his son-in- 
 law, endeavored to make good the bond 
 for 10,000 merks against Templeton, he, 
 Moorfield, would sue Dryhopefor damages, 
 under his letter of guarantee written by 
 him, on the occasion of Templeton's mar- 
 riage with Gertrude Hervey. At the 
 intimation of this intention, Dryhope 
 stared at the man, speechless, as if he had 
 been struck with a sudden attack of palsy. 
 Having, in some degree, recovered from 
 the effects of the shock, he denied that he 
 had ever written Moorfield any letter of 
 guarantee, and told the agent to carry to 
 his client his mortal defiance. 
 
 This was, however, the mere bravado 
 of a terrified man. Dryhope began to 
 think of the terms of his letter. Every 
 word of it was impressed on his memory, 
 and every word was again scanned with 
 the eye of cunning and apprehension. As 
 his investigation proceeded, his fears were 
 allayed. The critical interpretation of 
 the letter admitted of no such construction 
 as that attempted to be put upon it by 
 Moorfield or his agent. He had merely 
 written, that young Templeton had not 
 
 signed any bond to him. Was not this 
 true ? And if so, why should a man 
 suffer for the truth } I\o doubt he ^ave 
 also an opinion that Moorfield might safely 
 dower his daughter to Templeton. Was 
 not that a mere opinion r May not every 
 man, whose opinion is asked about the 
 propriety, or safety, or danger, of a mar- 
 riage, be equally liable to be called upon 
 to make up to the father the tocher of his 
 daughter. The whole matter appeared, 
 to him, to be rank nonsense, and ought 
 not to have the effect of deranging the 
 slightest feeling or idea of the mind of any 
 man of common sense. 
 
 This reasoning did not, however, pre- 
 vent Dryhope from getting a summons 
 from Moorfield, to make good to him 
 10,000 merks — part of the 15,000, paid 
 by him to his son-in-law, on Dr3^hope's 
 authority. The appearance of a summons 
 produces always a curious effect upon a 
 man who relies upon his own thoughts for 
 a conviction that he is not liable to satisfy 
 a claim, or pay a debt. It is something 
 like the doctor's apparatus to the man 
 who will not believe that he carries in his 
 body a stone. Dryhope saw the matter 
 had now a serious aspect ; and, relying 
 no further upon the advice of his country 
 attorney, went to Edinburgh, to consult 
 Counsellor Shillinglaw, a famous advocate 
 in those days, taking with him his docu- 
 ments, and the number of guineas neces- 
 sary to make the oracle speak. 
 
 He found Shillinglaw sittino; in his 
 library, dictating a paper to his clerk, who, 
 though apparently sleeping, was making 
 the pen skip over the sparse pages with a 
 celerity equal to the motion of the coun- 
 sellor's tongue. 
 
 " Be seated, sir," said the man of law 
 to Dryhope. " In what manner can I 
 assist you, sir." 
 
 " I'm no sure if ye can assist me ava, 
 Mr. Shillinglaw," said Dryhope, " if a' 
 that this very impolite paper has tauld me 
 be true ;" holding out the summons. 
 
 " Oh ! a summons on a L tter of e;uaran- 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 475 
 
 tee," said the advocate, glancing over the 
 paper. " Where are the letters ? I see 
 they are copied in the libel. Are they 
 correctly copied ?" 
 
 ^' 1 believe there's nae great error 
 there," said Dryhope. " I fear, if a' our 
 hope rests on the discrepancy o' a word 
 or twa between the letters and the copies 
 o' them in the summons, wehae nae great 
 case ; an' I may gie up, for my hope will, 
 in that event, be, as my name implies, dry 
 enough." 
 
 The counsellor kept reading the paper ; 
 and, after taking down some large folios, 
 and looking slightly into them, asked 
 Dryhope some questions, eliciting the facts 
 which have been already detailed ; and 
 without giving him any reply, resumed 
 again his search for authorities to clear up 
 some doubt that hung about his mind. 
 ^' Ay, ay," thought Dryhope, " is there 
 sae meikle doot o' my case, as to require 
 the touchstane o' thae ponderous law 
 bibles ^ In a law plea, doot is defeat ; 
 for the expense o' unravelling it is aften 
 mair than the plea is worth." 
 
 " These letters which passed between 
 you and Moorfield, you say, are correctly 
 copied," began the lawyer. " You also 
 tell me that old Templeton was due you 
 10,000 merks, by a bond executed by him. 
 Young Templeton was his heir, and so 
 liable to pay that bond. He was, in truth, 
 your only debtor. You had no other. It 
 would seem capable of proof, too, that you 
 called on Moorfield, and stated to him 
 that Templeton was not in debt ; at least, 
 you have not contradicted this part of Mr. 
 Harvey's letter. But, adhering more to 
 the documents, it seems quite imperative 
 on judge or jury, to view Mr. Harvey's 
 letter as a fair legitimate inquiry at you, 
 as the supposed creditor of Templeton, 
 whether he owed you the ten thousand 
 merks. His letter, notwithstanding that 
 he asks you whether young Templeton 
 signed to you a bond, and thus in one part 
 of it limited his inquiry, requires this fair 
 and honest construction. jN^ow, what does 
 
 your letter say .? In the first place, you 
 take no notice of the part of his letter re- 
 garding your previous communing ; and 
 in law, in certain circumstances, silence is 
 an admission. You then give a categori- 
 cal answer to the question put to you ; 
 and your answer is true, for young Tem- 
 pleton never signed the bond, though he 
 was your only debtor in it. Then — which 
 is the most extraordinary part of your 
 letter — you assure Mr. Harvey that he is 
 safe to dower his daughter with 15,000 
 merks to Templeton — meaning, of course, 
 that the safety consisted in his intended 
 son-in-law being free from debt ; and you 
 warrant this. The plain and common- 
 sense import, therefore, of your letter, 
 taken in connexion with Mr. Harvey's, 
 is, that you led him to believe that Mr. 
 Templeton was not burdened with the 
 debt of 10,000 merks in his father's bond; 
 and you did this in answer to a letter 
 stating that your answer would decide 
 whether Mr. Harvey would or would not 
 pay down with his daughter the 15,000 
 merks, or indeed give his daughter to 
 Templeton at all. Then, by your own 
 admission, it appears, that you assigned 
 your bond to your son-in-law, who has 
 forced, or is forcing Templeton to pay the 
 amount of it out of the very dower which 
 you said Mr. Harvey was safe in giving to 
 his son-in-law. The next inquiry is, cui 
 bono, what was your object in this proceed- 
 ing. That is perfectly clear. You want- 
 ed payment of your bond, and you thought 
 you could not get it unless your debtor 
 got a large dowry with his wife. On 
 putting all these things together, I am 
 quite clear that a court of law would at 
 once find that you have practised a decep- 
 tion ; (excuse my freedom, but lawyers' 
 tongues are like surgeons' knives) ; and 
 it is a principle of our law, as it is of that 
 of nature, that no man shall enrich him- 
 self at the expense of his neighbor." 
 
 As the lawyer had taken care to use no 
 fact in his argument, but what was fm'- 
 nished by Dryhope himself, the astounded 
 
476 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ambidexter had nothing to say for himself. 
 There was no shame in his constitution to 
 prevent him replying ; but there was dis- 
 comfiture and disappointment so intense 
 that he wished for nothing more ardently 
 than to get out of the house, and vent his 
 curses in the open air. Muttering a few 
 words to the lawyer about his obligations 
 to him for his opinion, he took up his pa- 
 pers, and hurried out. Before he fully 
 recovered from the shock produced by the 
 opinion, he had wandered considerably 
 out of his way. In the midst of his anger, 
 he resolved on consulting another authori- 
 ty, and accordingly proceeded to the 
 house of Mr. Crosbie. He received, how- 
 ever, no encouragement. The deception 
 practised by him, was the foundation of 
 the opinions that were given against him ; 
 and all his critical subtleties about con- 
 structions and readings of the letters, went 
 for nothing. 
 
 Still, however, he would not pay. A 
 discomfiture to a cunning man, when pro- 
 duced by the sharpness of his own weapons 
 turned ascainst himself, contains all the 
 elements of the most unmitigated misery. 
 The mere loss of anything, by a slight 
 carelessness, annoys, beyond the usual ef- 
 fects of an equal loss produced by means 
 beyond one's power ; but to lose in the 
 pride of an expected unjust gain — to have 
 it proved that one has robbed his own 
 purse and fooled his own judgment at the 
 same time — and to be doomed to bear at 
 once disappointment, remorse, shame, and 
 loss, rising in a united array against one 
 — is, perhaps, the greatest refinement of 
 mere mental agony that a selfish, cold- 
 blooded man, is capable of experiencing 
 in this world. Dryhope could not stand 
 this, and resolved to try the question in 
 court. 
 
 The case was accordingly tried. Many 
 other facts came out in the investigation. 
 His manoeuvres with Eccleshall, Walter 
 Tait, and Mr. Harvey, were all proved, 
 and a clear case of deception completely 
 established. The case went a2;ainst him. 
 
 and he was obliged to pay Moorfield the 
 whole sum. 
 
 The exposure of Dryhope, in this ne- 
 farious business, produced no effect upon 
 him in the way of amendment ; but it was 
 peculiarly felt by his daughter Maria. 
 She was so much affected, that she could 
 not be prevailed upon to visit at any of 
 the neighboring houses. Shame preyed 
 upon her spirits, and produced a delicate 
 state of health. The consequences might 
 not have been felt in an ordinary condi- 
 tion of body, but they told heavily against 
 her on the occasion of her bearing her first 
 child. She relapsed — and, in a very short 
 time, died ; and her child, being sent to a 
 strange nurse, experienced the fate of the 
 mother. Dryhope's expectations in that 
 quarter were thus disappointed, partly by 
 his own proceedings ; for it was only after 
 the exposure of her father that Mrs. Tait 
 betrayed any symptoms of bad health. 
 
 Upon the death of his daughter, Dry- 
 hope endeavored to prevail upon Waltei 
 Tait to repay him the 6,000 merks he got 
 with his daughter. The marriage having 
 proved unavailing, he ought, said DryhopOy 
 to place matters on their former footing, 
 and pay him back the tocher. Walter 
 Tait saw neither law nor justice in this 
 appeal, and refused to comply with the 
 old miser's request. But Dryhope had 
 two objects. If he could not get the toch- 
 er, he might get Walter Tait still to marry 
 Miss Whitten, and take her from his son. 
 
 " This is hard, Walter," said Dryhope ; 
 " I wadna hae used you in the same man- 
 ner, if I had been placed in your situation. 
 But maybe ye want the 6,000 marks to 
 stand in place o' the portion o' Eccles- 
 ha's daughter. I'm tauld she's vera par- 
 tial to ye ; an' her faither said to me, nae 
 farther gane than yesterday, that he is vera 
 sorry that ye took offence at something in 
 liis conversation and manner athegither 
 unkenned to himsel, and ceased visitin his 
 house as weel as speakin to his dochter. 
 I wish the family every blcssin, and ye 
 ken my feelings towards yersel. If I 
 
THE SCHEMER. 
 
 477 
 
 tbocht ye wad resume yer auld love, and 
 benefit that worthy family by pittin in the 
 place o' my Maria, Ecclesha's dochter, I 
 wad vera freely wish ye every joy o' the 
 tocher ye got wi' mine." 
 
 " I do not intend to wed again," said 
 Tait, who saw the drift of Dryhope ; " but 
 there's one thing 1 have made up my mind 
 to, and that is, to assist your excellent 
 son Hector in getting a good wife. I 
 understand he is on the point of marriage 
 with EccleshalPs daughter, who I know 
 to be a very accomplished and kind- 
 hearted girl. They will make an excel- 
 lent couple ; and as 1 understand you are 
 averse to the marriage, and intend to cut 
 off Hector with a shilling, while Eccleshall 
 has very little to give his daughter, I have 
 made up my mind to make a present to 
 Hector of his sister's dower. It will stand 
 in place of a portion with his wife, and 
 screen them against the effects of your 
 anger and parsimony. I do not wish any 
 remarks made on ray conduct, and there- 
 fore we shall change this subject, and, if 
 you please, speak upon something else." 
 
 Dryhope, however, could speak on no- 
 thins; else. His efforts at restraining his 
 passion were unavailing. He broke out 
 in a torrent of abuse upon Tait, who was 
 latterly obliged to call up his servant and 
 show his worthy father-in-law to the 
 door. 
 
 Tait was as good as his word. Eccles- 
 hall had agreed to give his daughter to 
 Hector Dryhope ; and upon their mar- 
 riage, which took place as soon after Ma- 
 ria's death as custom and decency would 
 permit, Tait paid to Hector the 6,000 
 merks which — being a large sum of money 
 in those times — when joined to 4,000 more 
 which an uncle of the young lady agreed 
 to pay down, formed a very handsome 
 fortune to the couple, who were, besides, 
 blessed in possessing the pure affections of 
 each other. 
 
 These repeated disappointments soured 
 the temper of old Dryhope. The neigh- 
 boring lairds shunned his society. Books 
 
 had no charms for him, and his children 
 were dead or estranged from him. There 
 was nothing left to him but the counting 
 of his gold, an operation which grew so 
 delightful to him, that he could not feel 
 in his heart to make a will, destinino- it to 
 a remote heir or to a charitable institu- 
 tion, even though he ardently wished to 
 cut off his son. There was a something 
 in the giving away, by the mere operation 
 of writing, to take effect after his death, 
 of so much money, which had occupied so 
 much time in collecting, and which yield- 
 ed so much pleasure in counting, that he 
 could not, though he repeatedly sent for 
 his attorney for the purpose, bring his 
 mind to perform the act. He put it off 
 from day to day, his procrastination being, 
 by every move, strengthened by the weak- 
 ness of his mind, and the increase of his 
 sordid affections. 
 
 Having followed this course for many 
 years, still keeping up his enmity towards 
 his son, he gradually declined into dotage, 
 and became unable, from the decay of his 
 faculties, to dispose of his property. The 
 only idea that remained on his mind with 
 any life or vividness, was that of hie 
 wealth. So long as he could move, he 
 visited his coffers ; and even when he was 
 confined to bed, he gratified his sole re- 
 maining feeling by getting his green char- 
 ter-chest into his bed, where he amused 
 himself with turning over, and endeavoring 
 to read, the dry monuments of his riches. 
 As his long bony fingers fumbled through 
 the cracking parchment, and his dry lips 
 muttered the sums, and debts, and lands 
 he possessed, he realized an image which 
 the pencil of the painter and the pen of 
 the poet, successful as these have been, 
 have not been able hitherto to portray. It 
 was now in vain to think of making a set- 
 tlement. The attorney declared that the 
 time was past, and no power on earth 
 could now prevent Hector Dryhope from 
 enjoying the property of his ancestors. 
 
 In a short time the old man died ; and 
 his sou. with his amiable wife, took pos- 
 
478 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 session of the bouse and property. The | misfortunes o' oor neebors." Hector re- 
 fauits of his father were tower-lights to ! collected it ; but he sighed to think that | 
 the son, which he did not lose the advan- { the word *' father'^ should occupy the : 
 tao-e of. It used to be a proverb of the place of the corresponding word in the 
 father, that " It is guid to learn frae the adage. 
 
 ^.^>«- 
 
 DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 
 
 It is said that there is honor amongst 
 thieves ; and, for the credit of the corps, 
 we would willingly believe it ; but the fol- 
 lowing story, we think, will show that in- 
 stances of bad faith have been sometimes 
 known to occur even amongst them, to 
 great scandal of the profession generally. 
 At the period when the lucrative trade 
 of thieving was in its high and palmy state 
 on the Borders, there flourished a certain 
 pair of gentlemen of the road, called Wal- 
 ter Laidlaw, or Watty o' the Dykes, and 
 Richard Armstrong, or Halting Dick— a 
 soubriquet, this, which he derived from a 
 slight lameness in one of his leirs. These 
 two worthies were sworn brothers ; yet 
 neither of them would trust the other the 
 length of a stirrup leather. They knew 
 each other too well for that ; but, as this 
 was a mutual understanding, it was no 
 cause of quarrel ; and they got on remark- 
 ably well, in defiance of political econo- 
 mists, without the smallest particle of con- 
 fidence beius: between them. The busi- 
 ness they did in the way hinted at — for 
 we feel a delicacy in employing broader 
 terms in speaking of Walter and his friend 
 Dick — was rather of a small kind ; some- 
 where about fourth or fifth -rate, perhaps ; 
 although they certainly did sometimes 
 make hits that would have done credit to 
 the proudest chieftain on the Borders. 
 What trade, however, they did carry on, 
 whether great or small, was, as often as 
 possible, done jointly ; that is, their de- 
 
 predations — we find we must use these 
 ugly terms after all — were committed in 
 partnership ; but the proceeds were regu- 
 larly divided, and appropriated by each 
 separately ; and, as they acted on all oc- 
 casion with perfect unanimity, were ex- 
 tremely active and industrious, and rarely 
 called in any of the other brethren to as- 
 sist in their operations, their gains were 
 considerable. Over and above all this, so 
 loving were this worthy couple, that when- 
 ever the one heard of a promising thing, 
 or had hit upon a good idea, he always 
 gave notice of it to the other ; and the two 
 generally set out together to see what 
 could be made of it. 
 
 On one occasion, however, it happened 
 that Walter found it inconvenient to ac- 
 company Dick on a certain predatory ex- 
 pedition of high promise, of which the lat- 
 ter had given him the hint ; and Dick 
 was therefore under the necessity of go- 
 ing alone. This he did ; and the result, 
 after all, was most satisfactory. He se- 
 cured a score of excellent well-conditioned 
 sheep. These, Dick drove homewards 
 during the night, from a distance of a good 
 many miles ; but, notwithstanding all the 
 expedition he could use, morning threat- 
 ened to break upon him before he could 
 reach his own house ; and in this dilemma 
 he determined, though not without much 
 reluctance, to quarter them with his friend 
 Walter, whose domicile lay in the way, 
 until the following evening. 
 
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 
 
 479 
 
 It was with great reluctance, as we liave 
 said, that Dick came to this resolution ; 
 for he had sore misgivings with regard to 
 their safety in Walter's possession — in 
 other words, he by no means felt sure that 
 he would ever get them out of his hands 
 again, as he had the highest opinion of his 
 friend's ingenuity in appropriating other 
 people's goods, and of his tenacity in 
 holding them when once in his grasp, 
 whether they belonged to friend or foe. 
 But, on this occasion, there was no other 
 course left him ; so he deposited the sheep 
 with Walter, who congratulated him on 
 his success, and promised to keep them 
 snug and safe for him till he came for 
 them on the following night. 
 
 On the following night, Dick came and 
 demanded his sheep. 
 
 '' Sheep ! " exclaimed Walter, with 
 well-affected astonishment. " What 
 sheep, Dicky, my man, do ye mean ?" 
 
 " What sheep, Watty, do I mean .?" 
 said Dick, in real amazement. " The 
 sheep I left wi' ye last night, to be 
 sure." 
 
 " Sheep ye left wi' me, Dicky !" re- 
 plied Walter. " The deil a cloot o' 
 sheep o' yours ever I saw. The man's 
 gite !" 
 
 *' Are ye in jest or earnest, Watty .?" 
 inquired Dick, with increased amazement. 
 
 " Never was mair in earnest in my life," 
 said W^atty, coolly. 
 
 " Do you mean to deny that I left a 
 score o' sheep wi' ye last night, and that 
 ye promised to keep them safe for me till 
 I cam for them .? Do ye mean to deny 
 that .^" said Dick, emphatically. 
 
 *' Most stoutly," replied Watty, with 
 the utmost composure. " I canna confess 
 to what's no true. My conscience forbids 
 me to do that. I haena now, nor ever had 
 a tail belangin to ye Dick." 
 
 " And ye mean to stan' by that, through 
 thick and thin .''' said Dick, with one of 
 blankest looks imaginable ; for he saw that 
 his sheep were gone gear. 
 
 " That I do," replied the other. " Tak 
 
 my word for that. The deil a sheep yese 
 get frae me on ony sic silly pretence as 
 that ye hae mentioned." 
 
 By this time, Dick had recovered a lit- 
 tle ; and, moreover, by this time, also, a 
 brisrht idea had struck him. 
 
 " Vera weel, Watty — vera weel," he 
 said, with a sudden cheerfulness of man- 
 ner, that not a little surprised Watty him- 
 self ; " you and I'll no quarrel about twa 
 or three sheep. Keep them, in gude's 
 name, and rauckle guid may they do ye !" 
 And during the short time thit the friends 
 remained together, subsequently, Dick 
 made no further allusion to the sheep, but 
 spoke on indifferent matters, as if nothing 
 whatever had happened. 
 
 For some weeks after this, matters went 
 on with the two friends precisely as before. 
 They went on several expeditions together, 
 and were, to all appearance, on as friendly 
 terms as ever ; neither of them making 
 the slightest allusion to the small matter 
 of the sheep that was between them. 
 About the end of this period, however, 
 Dick again appeared one morning early, 
 at Walter's door, with another score of 
 sheep, and besought a similar favor with 
 that he had asked on the former occasion 
 — namely, that Walter would quarter them 
 till the following night. With this request, 
 the latter readily complied. But, on this 
 occasion, Dick was accompanied by two 
 or three assistants of the same kidney 
 with himself, who counted over the sheep 
 in Walter's presence, and saw them de- 
 livered to him. 
 
 On the following evening, Dick called 
 for, and at once obtained his sheep, for 
 there had been witnesses to the delivery ; 
 and Watty, aware of this, did not attempt 
 a denial, as he had done before, as he felt 
 such a proceeding would endanger his re- 
 putation with the craft. 
 
 Having got possession of his sheep, Dick 
 bade his friend good night, and went re- 
 joicing on his way. 
 
 Next night, however, Dick again called 
 on his friend, Watty, and carefully con- 
 
480 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 cealing all expression of consciousness of 
 having been there on the preceding even- 
 ing, demanded his sheep over again. 
 
 " Your sheep, Dick !" said Watty, in 
 amazement. " Did ye no get them a', 
 every tail, last night .^" 
 
 " What tails, Walter, my man, do yc 
 mean ?" said Dick, gravely. 
 
 " What tails should I mean .-" replied 
 Walter, now, in his turn, amazed at Dick's 
 effrontery ; " but the tails o' the sheep I 
 delivered to ye last night." 
 
 " Sheep ye delivered to me, Watty !" 
 said Dick, with imperturbable gravity. 
 " Deil a cloot ye gae me, last night. The 
 man's gite." 
 
 " Come, now, ye're jokin, Dicky," ex- 
 claimed Walter, with a most rueful ex- 
 pression of countenance. 
 
 " Never was mair in earnest in my life," 
 replied Dick. 
 
 " What ! do ye mean to deny that I 
 gied ye a score o' sheep, last night .^" 
 
 " Most stoutly," answered his perse- 
 vering, immovable, and determined assail- 
 ant. " 1 canna confess to what's no true. 
 
 It would gang against my conscience. 
 War's yer witnesses that I got the sheep ? 
 Ye've nane ; while I can prove that I put 
 a score under yer charge, last night, and 
 ye canna show that they've been returned 
 to me. Thae sheep, therefore, Watty, I 
 still claim ; and if ye refuse them, I'll ex- 
 pose ye, and ye'll lose a' credit wi' the 
 craft. Sae, frcen, just gie me up another 
 score without mair ado, and then you and 
 I'll be quits, and no a bit waur freens than 
 ever we war." 
 
 Wat o' the Dykes saw at once that he 
 was in a dilemma — that Dick's ingenuity 
 had fairly reversed their relative positions, 
 and that he must refund. On this fact 
 becoming evident to him, he thought for 
 a moment, then burst out a lausrhin^ in 
 his friend's face, and confessed that he 
 was " clean done for." This admission 
 he followed up by restoring Dick's sheep 
 to him, and it was never understood that 
 this little breach of confidence had the 
 slightest injurious effect on the sincere 
 friendship which subsisted between the 
 two worthies. 
 
 -♦^♦^►^ 
 
 THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 The gloom of a boisterous winter evening 
 was settling over one of the wild, inhospi- 
 table tracts which lie to the north of the 
 St. Lawrence. The earth, far as the eye 
 could reach, was covered, to the depth of 
 many feet, by a continuous sheet of frozen 
 snow ; over which the bellying clouds, 
 heavily charged with the materials of a 
 fresh storm, hung in terrible array, fold 
 beyond fold, as they descended on every 
 side to mingle with the distant horizon. 
 On the one hand, a frozen lake, deeply 
 buried, like all the rest of the landscape, 
 stretched its flat, unvaried surface for 
 
 leagues along the waste ; on the other, a 
 windint'^ shore, covered with stunted trees 
 and bushesj alternately advanced into the 
 level, in the form of low, long promonto- 
 ries, or retired into little hollow bays, 
 edged with rock, and overhung by thick- 
 ets of pine. All was sublimely wild and 
 desolate. The piercing north wind went 
 whistling in sudden gusts along the frozen 
 surface of the lake, dashing against cack 
 other the stiff, brittle branches of the un- 
 derwood, and shaking off their icicles, or 
 whirlin<^' the licjhter snow into huge co- 
 lumns^ that ever and anon went stalking 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 481 
 
 along the waste like giants, and seemed at 
 times to thrust their foreheads into the 
 very clouds. Not a single human habita- 
 tion — not so much as the wigwam of an 
 Indian, or aught that could give evidence 
 of even the occasional visits of man — 
 could be seen in the whole frozen circle, 
 from the centre to the horizon. All seem- 
 ed alike uninhabitable and uninhabited — 
 a dreary unpeopled desert, the undisputed 
 domain of solitude and winter. 
 
 And yet, on this dismal evening, the 
 landscape was enhvened by two human 
 figures. They were mounted on a rude 
 sledge, drawn by four large dogs, that now, 
 as the evening began to darken, were urg- 
 ing their way at full speed across one of the 
 wider bays of the lake. The keen, pene- 
 tratino; wind blew riy;ht a-head, so intense- 
 ly chill that it felt to the naked hand like 
 a stream of ice ; and the travellers, who 
 were seated, with their backs to the blast, 
 on the front part of the car, and who from 
 time to time half turned their heads to 
 direct the course of the dogs, drew closer 
 and closer together as they felt their limbs 
 stiffening, and a drowsy torpor stealing 
 over all their faculties, under the deaden- 
 ing influence of the cold. They were 
 dressed from head to foot in the skins of 
 wild animals, with hoods, like those worn 
 by the Esquimaux, projecting over their 
 faces, and long strips of some thick, coarse 
 fur wrapped in a spiral fashion round their 
 limbs. One of them — a robust, dark- 
 complexioned young man, rather above 
 the middle size — had an Indian blanket 
 bound round his shoulders ; the other — 
 who, though tall and well-made, was of a 
 rather slighter form, and much less deeply 
 bronzed by the climate — was closely en- 
 veloped in the thick folds of a Scotch 
 plaid. 
 
 " I am afraid, Sandy, it's all over with 
 us," said Innes Cameron, the fairer and 
 handsomer of the two ; " I have been dead 
 asleep for the last ten minutes — ah, me ! 
 and dreaming of Scotland too, and of one 
 I shall never, never see more. Do you 
 
 VOL. ir. 68 
 
 think there can be any chance of our yet 
 reaching; the log-house .^" 
 
 " I have been more than half asleep 
 too," said Sandy Munro, the more robust 
 traveller, " and my feet are ice to the 
 ankles ; but, if we can hold out for barely 
 one quarter of an hour longer, we are safe. 
 Pine Creek Point is quite at hand — see 
 how it stretches black across the snow 
 yonder, not four hundred 3^ards away ; and, 
 hearken ! you may hear the wind whistling 
 through the branches. There is a little 
 bay beyond it, and the log-house is at the 
 bottom of the bay. Just strive and keep 
 up for a few minutes longer, Innes, and 
 we shall get over this night with all the 
 rest." 
 
 The sledge reached the promontory, 
 and entered the wood. It was thick and 
 dark ; and there was a rustling and crack- 
 ling on every side, as the dogS went 
 boundincr amons; the underwood — their 
 ears and tails erected, and opening from 
 time to time in quick, sharp barkings, 
 sure indications that they deemed them- 
 selves near the close of their journey. 
 The trees began to open ; and, descending 
 an abrupt ice declivity, the travellers 
 found themselves on the edge of a narrow 
 creek, that went winding into the interior, 
 between steep banks laden with huge piles 
 of snow, which, hollowed by the blast into 
 a thousand fantastic forms, hung bellying 
 over the level. A log-house, buried half- 
 way to the eaves in front, and overtopped 
 by an immense wreath behind — resem- 
 bling some hapless vessel in the act of 
 foundering — occupied an inflection of the 
 bank opposite the promontory ; and, in a 
 few minutes, the travellers had crossed the 
 creek, and stood fronting the door. 
 
 " Ah, no kindly smoke comes frae the 
 lum, Innes," said Sandy, leaping out of 
 the car; "all dark, too, as midnight at 
 Yule ; but we maun just bestir ourselves 
 and get up a blaze. Do exert yourself, 
 my bonny man, or we shall perish yet. 
 Unfasten the dogs, an' be sure you hang 
 up the harness out of their reach, or the 
 
482 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 puir hungry wratches will eat it up, every 
 snap, afore morning. Unfasten the door, 
 too, and get out our driest skins an' driest 
 tinder; and 1, meanwhile, shall provide 
 you with brushwood enough to keep up a, 
 bonfire till morning." 
 
 He seized an axe, and began to ply 
 lustily among the underwood ; while his 
 neighbor unharnessed the dogs, and, clear- 
 ing the door, entered the log-house, which 
 soon began to throw up a thick steam 
 through the snow. We shall take the 
 liberty of following him. The apartment 
 was about ten feet square ; the walls form- 
 ed of undressed logs, and the roof of shin- 
 gles. The snow peeped in a hundred dif- 
 ferent places through the interstices ; and 
 a multitude of huge icicles, the effects of 
 a late partial thaw, hung half way down 
 from the ceiling to the floor, and now, 
 glistened in the light as the flames rose 
 gaily on the hearth. The dogs were whin- 
 ing and pawing in a corner, impatient for 
 their evening repast. In a few minutes 
 Sandy had half filled the apartment with 
 brush-wood, and then set himself to assist 
 his companion, who seemed but indifi"erent- 
 ly skilled in the culinary art, in preparing 
 supper, which consisted mostly of frozen 
 fish and biscuit, relished by a dram of ex- 
 cellent rum. It was soon smokinor on the 
 floor, and, with the assistance of the doo-s, 
 soon discussed ; and the two fiir-gatherers 
 sat indulging in the genial heat, with the 
 
 lonar dark 
 
 before them, and nei- 
 
 ther of them in the least disposed to re- 
 tire to the bed of brushwood and skins 
 which they had formed on the floor, imme- 
 diately behind them. 
 
 " We are strange, changeable crea- 
 tures," said Sandy—" the bairn sticks to 
 us a' life lang ; an' if we dinna laugh an' 
 cry just in the ae breath, it's no that the 
 feelings dinna vary, but that the pride o' 
 consistency winna always let us show what 
 we feel. Little mair nor an hour aofo we 
 were baith perishing in the bitter oauld, 
 half resigned to die that we might escape 
 frae our misery, and noo here we are as 
 
 happy as if there were no such things as 
 death or hardship i' the warld. !Man, 
 what a bonny fire ! I could raaist forget 
 that 1 was a puir Hudson's-Bay fur" 
 gatherer, an' that kindly Scotland was 
 four thouvsand miles awa." 
 
 " What," said his companion, " could 
 have induced a steady, sensible fellow like 
 you, Sandy, to indenture with the Compa- 
 ny } 'Tis easy to divine what brought 
 most of our comrades here — they resem- 
 ble David's associates in the cave of Adul- 
 lum ; but you, who could have been nei- 
 ther in debt nor distress, and who are 
 always so much the reverse of discontent- 
 ed — I could never guess what brought you. 
 Come, now, let us have your story ; the 
 night is long and tedious, and 1 know not 
 how we could pass it to better purpose." 
 
 "But I do," replied Sandy. "My 
 story is nae story ava. I am but a rude 
 man amang rude men like mysel ; but you, 
 Innes, what could hae brought you here t 
 You are a gentleman an' a scholar, though 
 ye hae but sma' skill, maybe, in niifering 
 brandy an' glass beads for the skins o' 
 foumarts ; an' your story, no a vera gay 
 one I fear, will hae a' the interest o' an 
 auld ballad. It's but fair, however, that 
 ye should hae mine, such as it is, first. 
 But draw just a wee bittie out o' the 
 draught ; for there's a cauld, bitter win' 
 soughin ben frae the door — an' only hear 
 how the storm rages arout !" 
 
 " There's a curious prejudice," con- 
 tinued Sandy, " among our countryfolks, 
 an', I suppose, among the folks o' every 
 other country besides, against some par- 
 ticular handicrafts. It's foolish in maist 
 cases. The souters o' Selkirk were gal- 
 lant fellows ; an', had a' our Scottish 
 knights fought half as weel at Flodden, 
 our country would hae lost a battle less ; 
 an' yet you canna but ken how our auld 
 poets, o' the time — Dunbar, an' Kennedy, 
 an' Davie Lindsay — ridicule the puir sou- 
 ters. They say that, once on a time, the 
 vera deil himsel wadna keep company wi' 
 ane o' them till he had first got the puir 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OP HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 483 
 
 man to wash himsel. Noo, the prejudice 
 against tailors is hardly less strong in our 
 ain da^'s ; an' yet a tailor may ho a stal- 
 wart fallow, an' bear a manly heart. I'm 
 no sure, had it no been for this prejudice, 
 that I would noo hae been a fur-gatherer 
 on the shores o' Hudson's Bay." 
 
 " Would to Heaven," exclaimed his 
 companion, interrupting him, '' that I had 
 been bred a tailor ! I'm mistaken if any 
 such prejudice would have sent me across 
 the Atlantic." 
 
 " We can be a' wise enough on our 
 neebor's weaknesses, Innes," said Sandy; 
 "but to the story." 
 
 " I come frao a sea-port town in the 
 north o' Scotland, no twenty miles frae 
 Inverness, your ain bonny half Hieland, 
 half Lowland home. My father, who had 
 married late in life, was an old grey-head- 
 ed man from the time 1 first remember 
 him. He had a sma' family ; an', in his 
 anxiety to see us a' doing for oursels, I 
 was apprenticed to a tailor in my tenth 
 year. Weel do I mind wi' what a discon- 
 solate feelino; I left the twa cows I used 
 to herd on a bonny brae-side speckled wi' 
 gowans an' butter-cups, to be crumpled 
 down on the corner o' a board hardly big- 
 ger than an apron, amang shreds an' 
 patches o' a' the colors o' the rainbow, 
 wi' an outlook through a dusty window on 
 the side wa's o' an' auld warehouse. An' 
 then my comrades were such queer fal- 
 lows, fu o' a droll, little, wee sort o' con- 
 ceit that could ride on the neck o' a new 
 button, an' a warld o' fashions bits o' 
 tricks, nae thing sae guid as the tricks o' 
 a jackanapes, but every grain as wicked ; 
 an' aften hae they played them aff on the 
 puir simple laddie. There are nane o' oor 
 craftsfolks, Innes, but hae some peculiari- 
 ty to mark them that grows up oot o' 
 their profession, an' there's nae class mair 
 marked than the class 1 belong to." 
 
 " I have read Lamb on the melancholy 
 of tailors," said Innes, " and remember 
 laughing heartily at the quaint humor of 
 some of his remarks ; but I never wasted a 
 
 thought on the subject after laying him 
 down.'' 
 
 "Ah, Lamb, wi' a' bis bonny, bairn- 
 like humor an' simplicity," said Sandy, 
 " is but a Cockney feelosopher after a', 
 an' kent nacthino; o' the matter. Melan- 
 choly o' tailors, forsooth ! Why, man, a 
 Hieland tailor is aye the heartiest cock, 
 an' has aye the maist auld stories in the 
 parish. But I maun gie you the feeloso- 
 phy o' the thing at some ither time. — I 
 got on but ill wi' my companions," con- 
 tinued Sandy ; " an' the royitous laddies 
 outside used to jibe me wi' no being a man 
 sax years afore I ceased being a boy. Is 
 it no hard that tailors should lose the 
 reputation o' manhood through a stupid 
 misconception o' the sense o' an auld- 
 warld author ? He tells us the tailor can- 
 na make a man, just in the spirit that 
 Burns tells us a king canna mak an honest 
 man. An' instead o' the pith o' the re- 
 mark beinn; brousjht to bear on the beau 
 an' the coxcomb, wha never separate the 
 human creature frae his dress, it's brought, 
 oot o' sheer misapprehension, to bear 
 against the puir artisan." 
 
 " I see, Sandy," said Innes, with a 
 smile, " you are still influenced by Vesprit 
 de corps. If you once get back to Scot- 
 land, you wdll take to your old trade, and 
 die a master tailor." 
 
 " I wish to goodness I were there to 
 try !" replied Sandy. " But the story 
 lags wofully. I got on as I best could — 
 longing sadly, i' the lang bonny days o' 
 simmer, to be oot amang the rocks o' the 
 Sutors or on the sea, an' in winter, think- 
 ing o' the Bay o' Udoll, wi' its wild ducks 
 an' its swans, an' o' the gran fun I could 
 hae amang them wi' my auld pistol — whan 
 my master employed an auld ae-legged 
 sodger to work wi' him as a journeyman. 
 He was a real fine fellow, save that he 
 liked the drap drink a wee owre weel, 
 maybee ; an' he had wandered owre half 
 the warld. He had been in Egypt wi' 
 Abercromby, an' at Corunna wi' Moore, 
 an' o'er a' Spain an' at Waterloo wi' Wei- 
 
484 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 lington, an' in mony a land an' in mony a 
 fio-ht besides ; and noo he had come hame 
 wi' a snug pension, an' a budget o' first- 
 rate fine stories, that made the ears tingle 
 an' the heart beat higher, to live an' die 
 amang his freends. Oh, the delight I 
 have taen in that man's company ! Why, 
 Innes, at pension time, though I never 
 cared muckle for drink for its ain sake, 
 I have listened to his stories i' the public- 
 house till I have felt my head spinning 
 round like a tap, an' my feet hae barely 
 saired to carry me hame. I have charged 
 Bonaparty's Invincibles wi' him, fifty an' 
 fifty times, an' helped him to carry off 
 Moore frae beside the thorn bush where 
 he fell, an' scaled wi' him the breach at 
 St. Sebastian; an', in short, sae filled was 
 I wi' the spirit o' the sodger, that, had 
 the wars no been owre, I would hae broken 
 my indentures, an' gane. awa to break 
 heads an' see foreign countries. As it 
 was, however, I learned to like my em- 
 ployment ten times waur nor ever, an' to 
 break a head, noo an' then, amang the 
 town prentices. Spite o' my close, in- 
 door employment, I had grown stalwart 
 an' strong ; an' 1 mind, on ae occasion, 
 beating twa young fallows who had twitted 
 me on being but a ninth. Weel, the term 
 o' my apprenticeship cam till an end at 
 last ; an', flinging awa my thimble wi' a 
 jerk, and sending my needle after it like 
 an arrow, I determined on seeing the 
 warld. My crony, the auld veteran, 
 advised me to enter the army. I was 
 formed baith in mind an' body, he said, 
 for a sodger ; an' if I took but care — a 
 thing he never could do himsel — I micht 
 dee a sergeant. But whatever love I 
 micht hae for a guid fecht, I had nane for 
 the parade, an' my through dread and de- 
 testation o' the halberds o'er-mastered 
 ony little ambition I micht hae indulged 
 in when I dreamt o' a battle. I thoct o' 
 a voyage to Greenland — o' ganging a- 
 sodgering wi' Lord Byron to Greece — o' 
 emigrating to New South Wales or the 
 Cape — o' turning a farmer in the back- 
 
 woods — o' indenturing for a Jamaica over- 
 seer — o' going oot to Mexica for a miner 
 — ay, an' o' fifty ither plans besides — 
 whan an adverteesment o' the Hudson's- 
 Bay Company caught my notice an' de- 
 termined me at once. I needna tell ye 
 what the Directors promised to active 
 young men : a paradise o' a country to live 
 in— the fun o' huntino; and fishin?:' frae 
 Monday to Saturday nicht for our only 
 wark, an' pocketfu's o' money for our pay. 
 I blessed my stars, an' closed wi' the 
 agent at ance. An' noo, here I am, In- 
 nes, in the seventh year o' my service — 
 no that meikle disposed to contemn my 
 auld profession, an' mair nor half tired o' 
 huntinsr, fishing, and seeinsf the warld. 
 But just twa months mair, my boy, an' I 
 am free. An' noo, miiy I no expect 3'our 
 story in turn .'" 
 
 The wind, which had been rising since 
 nightfall, now began to howl around the 
 lofif-house and throuo;h the neio-hborins: 
 woods, like the roar of the sea in a storm. 
 There was an incessant creaking among 
 the beams of the roof, and the very floor 
 at times seemed to rise and fall under the 
 foot, like the deck of a vessel, which, after 
 having lain stranded on the beach, has just 
 begun to float. The storm which had 
 been so long impending burst out in all its 
 fury, and for some time the two fur-gath- 
 erers, impressed by a feeling of natural 
 awe, sat listening to it in silence. The 
 sounds rose and fell by intervals — at times 
 sinking into a deep, sullen roar, when all 
 was comparatively still around ; at times 
 swelling into thunder. In a pause of the 
 blast, Sandy rose and flung open the door. 
 Day had sunk more than two houi'S before, 
 and there was no moon, but there was a 
 strong flare of greenish-colored li^ht on 
 the snow that served to discover the ex- 
 treme dreariness of the scene ; and throuirh 
 a bore in the far north, resembling, as San- 
 dy said, the opening of a dark lantern, he 
 could see that, beyond the cloud, the hea- 
 vens were all a flame with the aurora bore- 
 alis. Earth and sky seemed mingled • the 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 485 
 
 snow, loose and fluctuating, and tossing its 
 immense wreaths to the hurricane, resem- 
 bled the sea in a storm, when the waves 
 run highest ; the ice, though so deeply 
 covered before, lay in some places dark 
 and bare, while in others, beneath the 
 precipices, the drift had accumulated over 
 it to the depth of many fathoms. Again 
 the blast came roaring onwards with the 
 fury of a tornado, and Sandy shut and 
 bolted the door. 
 
 " Ane o' the maistfrighfu nights, Innes," 
 he said, " 1 ever saw in America. It will 
 be weel if we're no baith buried a hunder 
 feet deep afore morning, wi' the log house 
 for our coflfin. The like happened, aboot 
 twenty years syne, at Badger Hollow, 
 where twa puir cheilds were covered up 
 till their skulls had grown white aneath 
 their bannets. But, though alane an' in 
 the desert, we're no oot o' the reach o' 
 Providence yet." 
 
 " Ah, no, my poor friend," said Innes, 
 " 1 do not feel in these days that life is 
 highly desirable ; but nature shrinks from 
 dissolution, and I am still fain to live on. 
 A poet, Sandy, would view our situation 
 at present with something like complacen- 
 cy ; but I am afraid he would deem your 
 story, amusing as it is, little in keeping 
 with the scene around us, and a night so 
 terrible as this. I can scarcely ask a tai- 
 lor if ho remembers the little bit in ' Thala- 
 ba,' where the cave of the Lapland sorcer- 
 ess is described 1 The lono; nisht of half 
 a year has closed, and wastes of eternal 
 snow are stretching around ; while in the 
 midst, beside her feeble light that seems 
 lost in the gloom of the cavern, the sor- 
 ceress is seated, ever drawing out and out 
 from the revolving distaff the golden thread 
 of destiny. 
 
 " I mind better," replied Sandy, 
 " Jamie Hogg's wild story o' my brother 
 craftsman, Allan Gordon, an' hoo he win- 
 tered at the Pole in the cabin o' a whomilt 
 Greenlandman, wi' Nannie an' a rum cask 
 for his companions. Dear me, hoo the 
 roarino-s o' the bears outside used to 
 
 amaze the puir cheild every time he was 
 foolish enough to let himsel grow sober ! 
 But, Gudesake, Innes, what's that .?" 
 
 There was something sufficiently fright- 
 ful in the interruption. A fearfully pro- 
 longed howl was heard outside, mingling 
 with the hurricane, and, in a moment af- 
 ter, the snorting and pawing of some ani- 
 mal at the door. Sandy snatched up his 
 musket, hastily examined the pan, to as- 
 certain that his powder had escaped the 
 damp, and setting it on full cock, pointed 
 it to the place whence the noises proceed- 
 ed. Innes armed himself with a hunting 
 spear. The sounds were repeated, but in 
 a less frightful tone : they were occasioned 
 evidently by a dog whining for admittance. 
 " Some puir brute," said Sandy, '^ who 
 has lost his master." And, opening the 
 door, a large Newfoundland dog came 
 rushing into the hut. With more than 
 brute sagacity, he flung himself at the feet 
 of the fur-gatherers, as if imploring pro- 
 tection and assistance ; and then, spring- 
 ing up and laying hold of the skirts of 
 Sandy's blanket, he began to tug him vio- 
 lently towards the door. 
 
 " Let us follow the animal," said Innes ; 
 " it may be the means of rescuing a fellow- 
 creature from destruction ; his master I 
 am convinced, is perishing in the snow.'' 
 
 " I shall not fail you, Innes," exclaimed 
 Sandy ; and, hastily wrapping their plaids 
 around them, and snatching up the one a 
 loaded musket, the other a bottle of spirits, 
 the fur-gatherers plunged fearlessly into 
 the storm and the darkness. 
 
 A greenish-colored light still glimmered 
 faintly from the north, through the thick 
 drift and the falling snow, too faint indeed 
 to enable them to catch the outlines of 
 surrounding objects, but sufficient to show 
 them the dog moving over the ice a few 
 yards before them, like a little black cloud. 
 They followed hard in his track towards 
 the bottom of the creek. The steep banks 
 on either hand contracted as they advanced, 
 till at length they could see their shagged 
 summits high above them in the darkness, 
 
486 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 and could hear the storm ragiug in the 
 pines, though it had become comparatively 
 calm in the shelter below. The creek at 
 length terminated in a semicircular recess, 
 surrounded by a steep wall of precipices. 
 The dog bounded forward to a fissure in 
 the rock — and there, at the edge of a huge 
 wreath of snop, which half shut up the en- 
 trance, lay what seemed, in the uncertain 
 light, the dead body of a man. The dog 
 howled piteously over it, breathed hard in 
 the face, and then looked up im23loringly 
 to the fur -gatherers. lunes leaped over 
 the wreath followed by Sandy, and, on 
 raising up the body found, though the ex- 
 tremities were stiff and cold as the ice on 
 which it lay, that life was not yet extinct, 
 
 " Some unlucky huntsman," said San- 
 dy ; " we maun carry him, Inncs, to 
 the log-house : life is sweet even anions; 
 the deserts o' Hudson's Ba3\" The per- 
 ishing hunter muttered a few syllables, 
 like a man in the confusion of a dream. 
 
 '' It grows dark, Catherine," ho said, 
 " and I am sick at heart and cold." 
 
 " Puir, puir fellow !'' exclaimed Sandy 
 — " he's thinking o' his wife or sweetheart ; 
 but he'll no perish this time, Innes, if we 
 can help it. Pity, man, for the car an' 
 dogs ; but minutes are precious, an' we 
 maun just lug him wi' us as we best may.'' 
 Rolling their plaids around the almost 
 lifeless stranger, the fur-gatherers bore 
 him away over the ice, the dog leaping 
 and barking with very joy before them ; 
 and in less than half an hour they had all 
 reached the loff-house. 
 
 The means of restoring suspended ani- 
 mation with which the casualties of so 
 many Hudson's-Bay winters had made 
 Sandy well acquainted, were resorted to 
 on this occasion with complete success ; 
 and the stranger gradually recovered. He 
 proved to be one of the most trusted and 
 influential of the Company's managers — a 
 native of Scotland, and much loved and 
 respected among the inferior retainers of 
 the settlement, for an obliging disposition 
 and great rectitude of principle. He was 
 
 a keen sportsman, and had left his place of 
 residence in the morning, on a solitary hunt- 
 ing excursion, accompanied only by his dog. 
 But, trusting to his youth, and strength, 
 the enthusiasm of the hunter had drawn 
 him mile after mile from home ; and, on 
 the breaking out of the storm, he had lost 
 his way among the interminable bays and 
 creeks of the lake. On his recovery, he 
 was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, 
 and meant all that he said. He was, per- 
 haps, not much afraid to die, he remarked, 
 but then he had many inducements to live, 
 and there were more than himself who had 
 a stake in his life, and who would feel 
 grateful to his preservers. 
 
 " Compose yourself," said Innes ; " you 
 have been strangely tried to-night, and 
 your spirits are still much flurried. Set 
 yourself to sleep, for never had man more 
 need ; and my companion and I shall 
 watch beside you during the night. Re- 
 member you are our patient, and entirely 
 under our control." The manager good- 
 humoredly acquiesced in the prescription, 
 and in a few minutes after was fast 
 asleep. 
 
 " Noo, Innes," said Sandy, " as there's 
 to be no bed for us to-night, you maunna 
 forget that you're pledged to me for your 
 story. Remember, my bonny man, our 
 bargain when ye got mine." 
 
 " I do remember," replied Innes ; " but 
 I well know you will be both tired and 
 sleepy ere I have done." 
 
 " 1 have long had a liking for you, San- 
 dy," continued Innes — " I knew you from 
 the first to be a man of a different cast 
 from any of our fellows ; and, ever since I 
 saw you take part with the poor Indian, 
 whom the two drunken Irishmen attempted 
 to rob of his rum and his wife, 1 have wished 
 for your friendship. It is not good for^en 
 to be alone, and I have been by much too 
 solitary since I entered with the Company. 
 You were, when in Scotland, the victim 
 of a silly prejudice against an humble, but 
 honest calling, but you could have lived 
 in it notwithstanding, had not a love for 
 
THE SCOTTISFI HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY 
 
 487 
 
 wandering drawn you abroad. I, on tlio 
 contrary — tliougli, liko the hare with many 
 friends, I was a favorite with every one — 
 was literally starved out of it My father 
 was a gentleman farmer, not thirty miles 
 from Inverness, whom the high war prices 
 of cattle and grain had raised from com- 
 parative poverty to sudden, though short- 
 lived affluence. No man could be more 
 sanguine in his hopes for his children. 
 He had three boys, and all of us were edu- 
 cated for the liberal professions, in the full 
 belief that we were all destined to rise in 
 the world, and become eminent. Alas ! 
 my brother, the divine, died of a broken 
 heart, a poor overtoiled usher in an Eng- 
 lish academy ; my brother, the doctor, 
 perished in Greenland, where he had gone 
 as the surgeon of a whaler, after waiting 
 on for years in the hope of some better ap- 
 pointment ; and here am I, a lawyer — 
 prepared to practise, as soon as we get 
 courts established among the red men of 
 Hudson's Bay. But I anticipate. I am 
 not sure nature ever intended that I should 
 stand high as a scholar ; but I was no tri- 
 fler, and so passed through the classes 
 with tolerable eclat. I am not at all con- 
 vinced, either, that I possess the capabili- 
 ties of a first-rate lawyer ; but I am cer- 
 tain I have seen men rise in the world 
 with not more knowledge, and with, per- 
 haps, even less judgment to direct it. 
 What 1 chiefly wanted, 1 suspect, was a 
 genius for the knavish parts of the pro- 
 fession. Will you believe me when I say 
 I have known as mucli actual crime com- 
 mitted in the office of a pettifogging coun- 
 try lawyer, as I ever saw tried in a Sheriff 
 Court. Oh, what finished rascality have 
 I not seen skulking under shelter of the 
 statute-book ! — what remorseless blacken- 
 ing of character, for the sake of a paltry 
 fee ! — what endless breaches of promise ! 
 — what shameless betrayals of trust ! — 
 what reckless waste of property ! Sandy 
 JNiunro, I am a poor Hudson's Bay fur- 
 gatherer, and can indulge in no other hope 
 than that I shall one day lay my bones at 
 
 the side of some nameless creek or jungle ; 
 but rather that, a thousand, thousand 
 times, than affluence, and influence, and re- 
 spectability — ay, respectability — through 
 the wretched means by which 1 have seen_ 
 all these secured I" 
 
 " You are an honest cheild, Innes," 
 said Sandy, grasping him by the hand. " I 
 have had a regard for you ever since I first 
 saw you ; an' the mair I ken o' you the 
 mair my respect rises." 
 
 " My father," continued Junes, " was 
 respectably connected ; I had a turn for 
 dress, a tolerably genteel figure, and was 
 fond of female society ; and, during the 
 four years I served with the lawyer in In- 
 verness, I found myself a welcome guest in 
 all the more respectable circles of the 
 place. Scarcely a tea-drinking or dancing 
 party was got up among the elite of the 
 burgh, but I was sure of an invitation. I 
 danced, played on the flute, handed round 
 the tea and the sweetmeats — all^ar excel- 
 lence — and was quite an adept in the art 
 of speaking a great deal without saying 
 anything. In short, I became a most ac- 
 complished trifler — an effect, perhaps, of 
 my very imperfect love of my profession. 
 The men who rise to eminence, you know, 
 rarely begin their course as fine fellows ; 
 and, were it not for a circumstance to 
 which I owe more of my happiness and 
 more of my misery than to any other, T 
 would have had to attribute ray failure in 
 life less to an untoward destiny than to 
 the dissipation of this period. But I was 
 taught diligence by the very means through 
 which most young people are W7itaught it. 
 I fell in love. There was a* pretty, simple 
 lassie, the daughter of one of the bailies 
 of the place, whom J used frequently to 
 meet with in our evening parties, and with 
 whose appearance 1 was mightily taken 
 from the moment I first saw her. She 
 united, in a rare degree, all the elegance 
 of the young lady with all the simplicity 
 of the child ; and, with better sense than 
 falls to the share of nineteen twentieths of 
 her sex, was more devoid than any one 1 
 
488 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ever knew of their characteristic cunning. 
 You have heard, I dare say, that young 
 ladies are anxious about getting husbands ; 
 but, trust me, it is all a mistake. The 
 anxiety is too natural a one to be experi- 
 enced by so artificial a personage as the 
 mere young lady. It is not persons but 
 
 things 
 
 she longs after- 
 
 ■settlements, not 
 
 sweethearts. 1 have had a hundred young- 
 lady friends who liked my youth and gen- 
 tility, and who used to dance, and romp, 
 and chat with me, with all the good will 
 possible, but who thought as little of me 
 as a sweetheart as if 1 were one of them- 
 selves. Thoughts of that tender class 
 were to be reserved for some rich Indian, 
 with a complexion the color of a drum- 
 head, and a liver like a plum-pudding. 
 This bonnie lassie, however, was born — 
 poor thing ! — with natural feelings. We 
 met, and learned to like one another — we 
 sang and laughed together — talked of 
 scenery and the belles lettres — and, in 
 short, lost our hearts to one another ere 
 we so much as dreamed that we had hearts 
 to lose. You must be in love, Sandy, ere 
 all I could tell you could give your ade- 
 quate notions of the happiness I have en- 
 joyed with that bonny, kind-hearted lassie. 
 Love, 1 have said, taught me diligence, I 
 applied to my profession anew, determined 
 to be a lawyer, and the husband of Cathe- 
 rine. I waded through whole tomes of 
 black-letter statutes, studied my way over 
 forty folios of decisions, and did what I 
 suppose no ona ever did before — read j 
 Grigor on the game-laws. Not half-a- j 
 dozen practitioners in the country could ; 
 draw out a deed of settlement with equal I 
 adroitness — not one succeeded in putting 
 fewer double meanings into a will. My 
 master used to consult me on convey- 
 ancing ; and, when, at the expiry of my 
 term, 1 left his office and set up for my- 
 self, you will not wonder it was with the 
 hope that my at least average acquirements 
 would secure for me an average portion of 
 success. You will see how that hope was 
 realized. *' The father of my sweetheart 
 
 was, as I have said, an Jnvernoss ba'lie ; 
 he was extensively engaged in trade, and 
 all deemed him a rising man ; but the case 
 was otherwise. An unlucky speculation, 
 and the unexpected failure of a friend, 
 involved him in ruin ; and I saw his office 
 shut up not three weeks aft<3r 1 had opened 
 my own. A week after brought me the 
 intelligence of my father's death. He had 
 been sinking in the world for years before ; 
 getting, much against his will, into ar- 
 rears with every one ; and now, imme- 
 diately on his death, all his eflfects were 
 seized by the laird. He was an easy- 
 tempered, obliging man — credulous and 
 confiding — and hence, perhaps, his mis- 
 fortunes. You will deem me cold and 
 selfish, Sandy, to speak in this way of 
 my father ; and yet, believe me, 1 felt 
 as a son ought to feel ; but repeated 
 blows have a stupifying efiect, and 1 can 
 now tell you, with scarcely a twinge, of 
 hopes blighted and friends lost. All my 
 hopes of rising by my profession soon 
 failed me. ISo one entered my office. 
 Though not without some confidence in my 
 acquirements, as you may see, I have ever 
 had a sort of shamefaced bashfulness about 
 me, that has done me infinite harm. People 
 were afraid to trust their cases with one who 
 seemed to mistrust himself — the forward, 
 the impudent, and the unprincipled car- 
 ried off all the employment, and I was 
 left to starve." 
 
 '' Honest, unlucky cheild I" ejaculate d 
 Sandy, with a profound yawn. " One 
 might guess, by the way ye bargain wi' 
 the Indians, that ye hae a vast deal owre 
 little brass for makin a fortune by the law. 
 But what came o' your puir simple lassie, 
 Innes, when her father broke .'" 
 
 " Ah, dear, good girl," replies Innes, 
 " with all her simplicity, she was, by 
 much, better fitted for making her way 
 through the world than her lover. She 
 was highly accomplished, drew beautifully, 
 read Chateaubriand in the original, and 
 had a pretty taste for music. Through 
 the recommendation of a friend, she was 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 489 
 
 engaged as governess in the family of a 
 Highland proprietor, in which, when I 
 left Scotland, she continued to be em- 
 ployed — well, I trust, for her own happi- 
 ness — usefully, 1 am sure, for others. I 
 shall forget many things, Sandy, ere 1 for- 
 get the day 1 passed with her on the green 
 top of Tomnahurichy ere we parted, as it 
 proved, for ever. You know that beau- 
 tiful hill — the queen of all our Highland 
 Tomkans — with the long winding canal on 
 the one side, and the brattling Ness on 
 the other, and surrounded by an assem- 
 blage of the loveliest hills that ever dressed 
 in purple and blue. It was a beautiful 
 day in early spring, and the sun shone 
 cheerily on a hundred white cottages at 
 our feet, each looking out from its own 
 little thicket of birch and laburnum, and 
 on the distant town, with its smoke-wreath 
 resting over it, and its two old steeples 
 rising through. The world was busy all 
 around us : we could see the ploughman 
 following his team, and the mariner warp- 
 ing onward his vessel ; the hum of eager 
 occupation came swelling with the breeze 
 from the far-off streets — and yet there 
 was I, a poor supernumerary among the 
 millions of my countrymen, parting almost 
 broken-hearted from her whom I loved 
 better than myself, just because there was 
 no employment for me. Oh, the agony of 
 that parting ! But 'tis past, Sandy, and 
 'tis but folly thus to recall it. No one, as 
 I have already told you, ever thought of 
 entering my office — no one, save my 
 landlord and the old woman with whom I 
 lived ; and you may believe there was 
 little of comfort in their visits. I was in 
 arrears to the one for rent, and to the 
 other for lodging. So far was I reduced, 
 that, in passing through the old woman's 
 room, I have been fain to take a potato 
 from off her platter, and that single potato 
 has formed my meal for the time. On one 
 occasion 1 was for two days together with- 
 out food." 
 
 *' Goodness ! gracious !" exclaimed 
 Sandy — " what came o' a' the grand 
 
 freends that used to gie ye the teas and 
 suppers ? Had they nae bowels ava .^" 
 
 " I would sooner have starved, Sandy, 
 than have made my wants known to the 
 best of them. But there was one on 
 whom I had a nearer claim, to whom I 
 applied in vain ; a brother of my father — 
 a close old hunks, who, though he had 
 realized thousands as a ship-broker in 
 London, had not heart enough to part 
 with a shilling for the benefit of his poor 
 nephew. But I believe the wretched man 
 was well-nigh as unkind to himself as he 
 was to me, and, in the midst of his wealth, 
 liired nearly as ill. You are getting sleepy, 
 Sandy, and I daresay 'tis little wonder you 
 should ; but I find a melancholy satisfac- 
 tion in thus retracing the untoward events 
 of the past, which I am certain I could not 
 feel, did conscience whisper that my mis- 
 fortunes were in any great degree owino- to 
 myself. Well, but to conclude. I be- 
 came squalid and shabby; all the ladies 
 sent me to Coventry, and all the gentle- 
 men spurned me as a fellow of no spirit. 
 I had mistaken my profession, it was said ; 
 and blockheads, who had been guiltless of 
 a single new idea all their lives long, used 
 to repeat from one another that my father, 
 in making a wretched lawyer of me, had 
 spoilt a good ploughman. I could bear no 
 longer. The Hudson "s-Bay Company had 
 an agent, you know, at Inverness. I 
 called on him one evening after a day of 
 listing and miserable low spirits — and now 
 here I am in the second j^ear of my ser- 
 vice with the Company." 
 
 " But hoo, Inncs, man," inquired San- 
 dy, " could ye hae found heart to leave 
 Scotland, without seeing the puir lassie, 
 your sweetheart? Do ye ken aught o' 
 her noo ?" 
 
 " Know of her !" exclaimed Innes ; 
 '' alas ! I too surely know i have lost her. 
 The last thing but one that I did ere I 
 sailed from Stromness, was to write her, 
 to say how I had fallen from all my hopes 
 regarding her, and to bid her forget me ; 
 the very last thing I did was to cry over a 
 
490 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 kind, cheerful letter, which had followed 
 mo all the way from Inverness, and in 
 which she ur2;ed me to keep up my heart, 
 for that all would yet be well with us. 
 Little did she know, when writing it, that 
 I was on the eve of becoming — a poor 
 vagabond fur-gatherer on the wild shores 
 of Hudson's Bay. Dear, generous girl ! 
 I trust she is happy." 
 
 " May I ask," said the manager, who, 
 unknown to the two fur-gatherers, had lain 
 awake for some time, listening to the nar- 
 rative, '' may I ask if you are not Innes 
 Cameron, late of Inverness, only surviving 
 son of Colin Cameron of Glendocharth}?-, 
 and nephew of the lately deceased ?vlalachi 
 Cameron, of Upper Thames st., London .^" 
 
 " 1 am that Innes Cameron," said the 
 fur-gatherer ; " and so my poor old uncle 
 is dead .^" 
 
 " And having died intestate," continued 
 the manager, "you, as heir-at-law, suc- 
 ceed to his entire estate, personal and 
 real, consisting of a property of a few hun- 
 dred acres in the vicinity of Inverness, and 
 twenty thousand pounds vested in the three 
 per cents. A considerable remittance from 
 London has been waiting you for the 
 last month, at the Hawk River Settlement, 
 and, what you will deem very handsome 
 in the circumstances, a free discharge from 
 the Company for your five remaining 
 years' servitude. I am actino; manao-er at 
 the River, and to my care the whole has 
 been committed." 
 
 Innes seemed astounded by the intel- 
 ligence ; his gayer companion leaped up 
 and performed a summerset on the floor. 
 
 *' Innes, Innes, Innes !" he exclaimed — 
 " why are 3^0 no dancing } — why are ye 
 no dancing ; Did I no ken ye were born 
 to be a gentleman } I maun hae a double 
 glass to drink luck to ye ; and Pm sure 
 the manager winna say no. Goodness, 
 man, it's the best news I have heard in 
 America yet !" 
 
 Morning at length broke — a calm, clear 
 morning, for the clouds had passed away 
 with the storm, and the travellers, after 
 
 j sharing in an ample, though not very de- 
 licate repast, prepared to set out on their 
 journey. The dogs were harnessed, and 
 the car laden. The manager, who, from 
 the fatigue and exhaustion of the previous 
 night, still felt indisposed, was mounted in 
 front ; the two fur-gatherers were lacing 
 on their snow-shoes to follow on foot. At 
 length the sun rose far to the south, 
 through a deep frosty haze, that seemed to 
 swaddle the horizon with a broad belt of 
 russet, and the travellers set out in the 
 direction of a distant promontory of the 
 lake. The snow all around, the woods 
 that rose thick over the level, the over- 
 hano-inof banks of the lake, the hills in the 
 far distance, were all bathed in one rich 
 glow of crimson, that more than emulated 
 the blush of a summer's evening at sunset ; 
 the shadows of the travellers, as they 
 stretchedfor many fathoms across the lake, 
 had each a moonlifrht halo round the head, 
 like the glory in an old painting ; and the 
 very air, laden with frost rhime, sparkled 
 to the sun, like the gold water of the che- 
 mist. The scene was altogether strangely, 
 I had almost said unnaturally beautiful ; 
 it was one of those which, once seen, are 
 never forgotten. 
 
 " You have been silent, Innes," said 
 Sandy, " for the last half hour, an' look 
 as wae an' anxious as if some terrible mis- 
 chanter had befallen ye. I'll wad the 
 best quid in my spleuchan, ye hae been 
 thinking about Catharine Roberts, an' 0' 
 your chance 0' finding her single. Pd 
 advise ye, man, just for fear 0' a disap- 
 pointment, to marry the manager's sister ; 
 she's ane 0' the best, bonny lassies I ever 
 saw, an' plays strathspeys an' pibrochs like 
 an angel. Oh, had ye but heard her at 
 ' Lochaber no more,' an' the ' Flowers 0' 
 the Forest,' ye wad hae grat like a bairn, 
 as I did. Dear me, but she's a fine lassie ! 
 Had I as many thousands as ye hae, In- 
 nes, I wad marry her myseP." 
 
 " How came 3'ou to hear her music V* 
 asked Innes, in atone that showed he took 
 but little interest in the query. 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY 
 
 491 
 
 " Ah, there's a story belongs to that 
 question," replied Sandy. " It's about a 
 month or twa mair nor a twelvemonth 
 noo, sin Tam M'Intyre an' I set out frae 
 Racoon Settlement, on ane o' the weariest 
 an' maist desperate journeys I have yet 
 taen in America. About Christmas, a 
 huntsman, in passing the settlement, tauld 
 us there was to le a gran' ball on New 
 Year's Day at the Hawk River, an' that 
 there were to be four Scotch lassies at it, 
 who had come owre the simmer afore, 
 forby a bonny young leddie, the manager^s 
 sister. The river, ye ken, is no mickle 
 aboon twa hundred miles frae Racoon 
 Settlement, an' Tam M'Intyre an' I, who 
 for five years hadna seen a living creature 
 liker a woman than an Indian squaw, re- 
 solved on going to the ball, to see the 
 lassies. We yoked our sledges on a snell 
 frosty morning, s-et out across the great 
 lake, an' reached the log-house, at Bear's 
 Point, about dark. We got up a rousing 
 fire, an' drunk maybe a glass or twa extra 
 owre our cracks about Scotland an' the 
 lassies ; but I'll tak my aith on't there was 
 neither o' us meikle the waur. But, how- 
 ever it happened, about midnight we baith 
 awakened mair nor half scomfisht, an' 
 there was the roof in a bright lowe aboon 
 our heads. MTntyre singed a' his whis- 
 kers an' eebrees in getting out ; I was 
 luckier, an' escaped wi' the loss only o' 
 my blanket an' our twa days' provisions. 
 But we just couldna help it ; an' yokin 
 our dogs by the light o' the burnin, off we 
 set, weel aware that we wad baith miss our 
 breakfasts ere we reached the Hawk River. 
 We travelled a' that day an' a'^ the next 
 night, the dogs hearty an' stronof, puir 
 brutes, for we had been lucky enough to 
 get the hinder half o' a black fox in a trap 
 — the other half had been eaten by the 
 wolves ; but ourscls, Inncs, were like to 
 famish. When morning came, we were 
 within thirty miles o' the Hawk River. 
 There was little wind, but the frost burned 
 like het iron. I dinna remember asneller 
 morning. M'Intyre had to thaw his nose 
 
 three times, an' my chin an' ears had 
 twice got as hard as bits o' stockfish. We 
 had rubbed off a' the skin in trying to mak 
 the blood circulate, an' baith our faces had 
 so swelled out o' the size, an' shape, an' 
 color o' humanity, that, when we reached 
 the settlement, we were fain to steal into 
 an outside hut, just that the lassies mightna 
 see us, Man, but it was a sair beg-eck ! 
 The ball night came^ an' we were still 
 uglier than ever, an' I thought I would 
 hae gane daft wi' vexation. We could 
 hear the noise o' the fiddles, an' the dancin 
 — an' that was just a'. M'Intyre had 
 some thoughts o' hanging himsel oot o' 
 spite. Just when we were at the warst, 
 however, a genteel tap comes to the door ; 
 an' there was a smart bonny lassie wi' 
 a message to us frae her mistress, the 
 manager's sister. We were asked down, 
 she said ; her mistress, hearing o' our mis- 
 luck, and that we had baifh come frae the 
 north country, had got up a snug little 
 supper for us, where there would be none 
 to ferlie at us, an' was noo waiting our 
 eominor. Was this no kind, Innes } I 
 made a veil o' my plaid as I best could, 
 MTntyre mufQed himself up in a napkm, 
 an aff we went to the manager's. But, O 
 man ! sic kindness frae sae sweet a leddy ! 
 She sang an' played till us — an' weel did 
 it set her to do baith ; an' mixed up our 
 toddy for us — for we were gey blate, as ye 
 may think ; an', on taking our leave, she 
 shook ban's wi' us, as gin we had been 
 her equals. I've never been fule eneugh 
 to be in love, Innes — begging your pardon 
 for saying sae — but I feel I could lay down 
 my life for that bonny lassie ony day. 
 Weel, but kindliness is a kindly thing !" 
 
 " What is the young lady's name .'"' in- 
 cj^uired Innes, with some eagerness, as a 
 sudden thought came across him. " Her 
 brother, 1 think, calls her Catharine." 
 
 " Ah, no your Catharine, though," said 
 Sandy; " the manager's name is Pringle, 
 ye ken, an' that's no Roberts." 
 
 " 1 am a fool," replied Innes, with a 
 
 sigh ; ''^ and you see it, Sandy." 
 
492 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 The track pursued by the party, which 
 had hitherto lain along the edge of the 
 lake, now ascended the steep wooded bank 
 which hung over it, and, after winding for 
 several miles through a series of shaggy 
 thickets, with here and there an interven- 
 ing swamp, opened into an extensive plain, 
 A few straggling clumps of copsewood 
 served to enliven the otherwise unvaried 
 surface, and, in the far distance, there was 
 a range of snowy hills that seemed to rise 
 directly over a deep narrow valley in 
 which the plain terminated. There was no 
 wind, and a column of smoke, which issued 
 from the centre of a distant wood, arose 
 majestically in the clear sunshine, till 
 reaching a lighter stratum of air, it spread 
 out equally on every side, like the foliage 
 of a stately tree. 
 
 " Some Indian settlement," said the 
 manager. " There is much of beauty in 
 this wild scene, Mr. Cameron — beauty 
 merging into the sublime ; and the poor 
 red men, its sole inhabitants, form exactly 
 the sort of figures one would choose to in- 
 troduce into such a landscape. I am now 
 much more a lover of such scenes than 
 before my sister joioed me." 
 
 " A taste for the wild a-nd savage seems 
 to be an acquired one," remarked lunes ; 
 *' a taste for the beautiful is natural. 
 Certainly the first comes kter in life to the 
 individual, aad it is scarcely ever found 
 anions; the uueducated. One of the finest 
 wild scenes m Ross- shire — a deep, rocky 
 ravine, overhung with wood, and with a 
 turbulent Highland stream roarinjif throuc;;h 
 it — is known by all the countr^^-folks i*n 
 neighborhood by the came of the Ugly 
 Burn." 
 
 " The remark chimes in with my expe- 
 rience," said the manager. " I ever ad- 
 mired the beautiful ; but it was Catharine 
 who first taught mc to admire the sublime. 
 There is a savagely wild scene before us, 
 where I can now spend whole hours in the 
 fine summer evenings, but which I used to 
 regard, only a few years ago, as positively 
 •a. disagreeable one. But such scenes 
 
 make ever the deepest impression, whe- 
 ther the mind be cultivated or no." 
 
 " A.y, Mr. Pringle," remarked Sandy ; 
 " an' frae that I draw my main consolation 
 for having spent sae mony o' my best 
 years in gathering skins for a wheen Lon- 
 don merchants." 
 
 " How .^" inquired the manager. 
 
 " Why, I just find that I am to bring 
 hame wi' me recollections and impressions 
 enough to ser' me a' my life after ; recol- 
 lections o' mony a desert prairie, an' mony 
 a fearful storm — o' encounters wi' wild 
 beasts, and wild men — o' a' that we deem 
 hardship noo, but which we will find it 
 pleasure to dwell on afterwards.'' 
 
 " Thank you for the remark, Sandy !" 
 said Innes ; " I find I am to bring home 
 with me something of that kind, too." 
 
 Towards the close of the day, the course 
 of the travellers had lain along; the banks 
 ef the river ; the waters were bound, from 
 side to side, with a broad belt of ice, but, 
 at the rapids, they could hear them growl- 
 ing beneath, like a wild beast in its den ; 
 and, just as the evening was beginning to 
 darken, they descended into a deep hollow, 
 surrounded by immense precipices and 
 overhung by trees, into the upper part of 
 which the stream precipitated itself in one 
 unbroken sheet of foam, which had resist- 
 ed the extreme&t influence of the frost. 
 Innes thought he had never before seen a 
 scene of wilder or more savage grandeur. 
 There was a loft}' amphitheatre of rock all 
 around ; the centre was occupied by a dark 
 mossy basin, in which the waters boiled 
 and bubbled as in a huge caldron ; a broad, 
 level strip, edged with trees and bushes, 
 lay immediately under the precipices ; 
 and, directl}^ beneath the cataract, there 
 was a fantastic assemblage of tall riven 
 peaks, ladcQ with icicles, that seemed in 
 the gloom a conclave of giants. A deep, 
 gloomy cavern, whose echoes answered 
 incessantly to the roar of the torrent, 
 opened behind and under it ; while, im- 
 mediately in front, there rose a large cir- 
 cular mound, roughened with a multitude 
 
THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. 
 
 493 
 
 of lesser hillocks, and now wrapt up, like 
 all the rest of the landscape, in a deep 
 covering of snow." 
 
 " 'Tis an Indian burying-place," said 
 the manager, pointing to the mound ; 
 " wild and savage, you see, as the people 
 who have chosen it for their final resting- 
 place. These hillocks are sepulchral 
 cairns. My sister spends most of her 
 summer evenings here — for we are now 
 little more than a mile from the settlement ; 
 and she has taught me to be well nigh as 
 fond of it as herself. Should she die in 
 this country, I am pledged to lay her 
 among the poor Indians. There are 
 strange stories among them of yonder 
 cave and cataract — the one is a place of 
 purification, they say ; the other, a way to 
 the land of spirits. I am certain you will 
 feel much interest, Mr. Cameron, in dis- 
 cussing with Catharine what she terms the 
 beginnings of mythology, as illustrated by 
 this place. She had naturally an original 
 and highly vigorous mind, and her father 
 (by the way, she is but a half-sister of 
 mine) spared no pains in cultivating it. 
 But now that we have gained the ridge, 
 yonder is the settlement : see — that higher 
 lio;ht comes from Catharine's window. 
 Trust me, you may calculate on her 
 warmest gratitude for what her brother 
 owes you." 
 
 Hawk-River Settlement is situated in 
 the middle of a valley, surrounded by low, 
 swelling hills, with a river in front, and a 
 deep pine-wood behind. It forms a small 
 straggling village, composed mostly of 
 loo--housos, with a range of stone and lime 
 buildings — the store-places of the Com- 
 pany — rising in the centre. On reaching 
 the manager's house — a handsome erection 
 of two stories — Innes and his companion 
 were shown into a small, but very neat 
 parlor. There were books, musical in- 
 struments, and drawings. The very 
 arrano-ement of the furniture showed the 
 delicate and nicely-regulated taste of an 
 accomplished female. The shutters were 
 fast barred, there were candles burning on 
 
 a neat mahogany table, and the cheerful 
 wood-fire glowed through the bars of a 
 grate, and threw up a broad powerful 
 flame that, in the intense frost, roared in 
 the chimney. 
 
 " Ah," said Innes to the manager, " your 
 neat, Scotch-looking parlor brings Scot- 
 land to my mind, and my old evening 
 parties ; it reminds mc, too, that a dress 
 of skins is not quite the fittest for meet- 
 ing a young lady in. Can you not indulge 
 me with a change of dress.'" 
 
 '' Ah ! how stupid 1 am, replied the 
 manager, " not to have thought of that ! 
 Attribute it all to my eagerness to intro- 
 duce you to Catharine. There is a whole 
 chestful of clothes from London waiting 
 you below. Come this way. We shall 
 join you, Sandy, in less than twenty 
 minutes, when Mr. Cameron has made his 
 toilet ; and Catharine, meanwhile, will 
 find what amusement for you she can." 
 On their return, Catharine and the fur- 
 eatherer were engao-ed in conversation. 
 
 She was a lady of about two and 
 twenty ; paler of cheek and sparer of 
 form than she had been once : for there 
 was an indescribable something in her ex- 
 pression that served to tell of suiferings long 
 endured, and exertions painfully protract- 
 ed ; but she was still eminently beautiful , 
 and there was an air of mingled spirit and 
 good-nature in the light of her fine black 
 eyes, and the smile that seemed lurking 
 about her mouth, that might well be term- 
 ed fascinating. Sandy had evidently felt 
 its influence ere his companion entered the 
 room. 
 
 " And what," eagerly inquired the lady^ 
 as the manager opened the door, " is the 
 name of your companion — the man to 
 whom, with you, my brave, warm-hearted 
 countryman, I owe the life of my bro- 
 ther.^" 
 
 "Good Heavens!" ejaculated Innes, 
 
 springing forward, " can it be possible .' — 
 
 Catharine Roberts ! the best, truest, dear- 
 
 1 est of all my friends !" 
 
 I " Innes Cameron !'' exclaimed Catha- 
 
494 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 rinG. And in one moment of intense, life- 
 invigorating joy, whole years of suffering 
 were forgotten. But why lengthen a story 
 rapidly hastening to its conclusion, in the 
 vain attemj^t to describe what, from its 
 very nature, must always elude descrip- 
 tion f Never was there a happier evening 
 passed on the shores of Hudson's Bay. 
 
 It has Ions: since become a truism, 
 that, when fortune ceases to persecute a 
 man, his story ceasos to interest. It was 
 certainly so with Innes Cameron and his 
 story. Few men could be happier than 
 he for the two months he remained at 
 Hawk-River Settlement. When, however, 
 the ice broke up, and vessels began to 
 arrive from Europe, he had become hap- 
 pier still ; and when, about the middle of 
 summer, he sailed for Stromness in the 
 good ship Falcon, accora pained by Miss 
 Roberts and his old comrade, Sandy, there 
 was yet a further accession to his happi- 
 ness. An old file of Inverness newspa- 
 pers, from which 1 manage to extract a 
 good deal of amusement in the long winter 
 evenings — for no one writes more pleas- 
 iuo-ly than Carruthers — shows me that his 
 enjoyments were not wholly full, until 
 after his arrival in Scotland, when he was 
 married, says the paper, " at Belville 
 Cottage, by the Rev. Dr Rose, to the 
 
 beautiful and highly accomplished Miss 
 Catharine Roberts." I find, in a more 
 recent number of the same newspaper, a 
 very neat description of a masonic pro- 
 cession in one of our northern towns. 
 " There is, to a native of Scotland," says 
 the editor, *' something very pleasing in 
 the contemplation of a goodly assemblage 
 of Scotchmen, powerful in muscle and 
 sinew — suited either to repulse or in- 
 vade — to preserve the fame of their 
 country or to extend it ; and this feeling 
 was of general experience among the peo- 
 ple of Sutor creek on Friday last. After 
 the brethren had paraded the streets, they 
 returned to their lodge, where dinner was 
 prepared for them, and where, after choos- 
 insx Mr. Alexander Munro, late of Hud- 
 son's Bay, as their master for the ensuing 
 year, they spent the evening in meet cor- 
 diality." And here my story ends. The 
 lives of a country gentleman, of superior 
 talent and worth, and a shrewd, honest 
 mechanic — varied only by those migra- 
 tions which the Vicar of Wakefield de- 
 scribes — migrations from the blue room to 
 the brown, or from the workshop to the 
 street — however redolent of happiness 
 and comfort to themselves, furnish the 
 writer with but little scope for either 
 narrative or description. 
 
 -»-«^M 
 
 THE WEDDING 
 
 On a certain vacation day of August — 
 of which I have still a vivid recollection — 
 I fished in Darr Water ; and with so much 
 success that nio-ht had o-athered over me 
 ere 1 was aware. 1 was at this moment 
 fully fifteen miles from home, in a locality 
 unmarked by one single feature of civiliza- 
 tion ; for here neither plough, nor sickle, 
 
 nor spade had ever made an impression. 
 For anything 1 knew to the contrary, there 
 was not a human habitation nearer than 
 ten miles. I was loaded down to the very 
 earth with fish, and not a little fatigued by 
 the forenoon's travel and sport. It be- 
 hoved me, however, at all events and risks, 
 to set my face homewards ; and, although 
 
THE WEDDINa 
 
 495 
 
 I might have followed the Darr till it 
 united with the Clyde, and thus made my 
 way with a certainty home at last, yet I 
 preferred retracing my steps, and saving 
 at least a dosen of miles of mountain 
 travel. But the mist was close and crawly, 
 lying before me in damp, danky obscurity ; 
 and the wind, which during the day had 
 amounted to a breeze, was now wrapt up, 
 and put to rest in a wet blanket. Ail was 
 still, except the voice of the plover, myre- 
 snipe, and peese-weep. The moss or 
 moor, or something partaking of the na- 
 ture of both, and rightly neither, was lone, 
 uniform, and unmarked ; it was like sail- 
 ing without star or compass over the 
 Pacific. Meanwhile, day — which seemed 
 to be desirous of accelerating its depar- 
 ture — disappeared, and I was left nlone in 
 my wilderness. J could not even lie down 
 to rest ; for the spongy earth gave up its 
 moisture in jets and squirts. I hurried 
 on, however, following my breath, which 
 smoked like a furnace amidst the mountain 
 mist ; and trailing my fish, in a large bag, 
 after me. I had killed somewhere about 
 sixteen dozen. At last I gained a small 
 stream, and as I have an instinctive likino; 
 for all manner of streams, I was led by the 
 ear along its course, till I found mjself in 
 a close ravine or dell, surrounded on each 
 hand by sleep, grassy asjents, scars, and 
 rocks. 1 kept by the voice of the water, 
 which now fell more contractedly over 
 gullet and precipice, till at last, to my 
 infinite delight, I heard, or thought I heard, 
 the bark of a dog ; and, in a few seconds, 
 one of these faithful animals occupied the 
 steep above me, giving audible intimation 
 of my unlooked-for presence. The shep- 
 herd's voice followed hard behind ; and I 
 never was happier in my life than on the 
 recognition of a fellow-creature. My tale 
 was soon told, and as readily understood 
 and believed. To travel home on such a 
 night was out of the question, so I was 
 conducted to the shepherd's shelling — ^to 
 that covert in the wilderness in which there 
 is mere downnght shelter, comfort, and 
 
 happiness than in town palaces ; for comfort 
 and happiness are inmates of the bosom 
 rather than of the home. 
 
 My entrance was welcomed by the 
 shepherd's wife and an only daughter. 
 There was likewise a young lad, of about 
 twelve years, who was the younger of two 
 sons, the elder being dead. Servants 
 there were none ; for, where all serve 
 themselves, there is no need of what the 
 Americans call "helps." Nothing could 
 exceed the kind hospitalities of this family 
 — the very dogs, with a couple of young 
 puppies, gathered round me. They licked 
 the wet from my legs and clothes, and 
 seemed sufiiciently satisfied even with a 
 look of approbation. My supper was the 
 uncelebrated, but unequalled Dumfries- 
 shire feast, champit potatoes. I slept sound- 
 ly till morning ; and, after a breakfast 
 of porridge— " Scotland's halesome food" 
 — and learning that the young and beauti- 
 ful woman, the shepherd's daughter, was 
 to be married on Saturday eight days — I 
 bent my way homewards, to hear and bear 
 merited reproof for the anxiety which mj 
 absence (which was, however, luckily at- 
 tributed to a stolen visit to an aunt) had 
 occasioned. 
 
 Saturday eight days dawned, and by this 
 time I had induced my fishing preceptor 
 and companion, Willie Ilerdeman, to ac- 
 company me to the mountains, thinkino- to 
 decoy him, as it were, to the neighborhood 
 of the wedding, and there to treat him 
 with a view of the happy party and bloom- 
 ing bride. 1 kept my own secret — and 
 we were within a mile of the sheilino- ere 
 I disclosed it. It was then about two 
 o'clock, and, so far as we could guess, 
 precisely the marriage dinner hour, Willie, 
 who was an old soldier, had no objection 
 to join in the merriment, nor to drink a 
 glass to the future happiness of the young 
 folks. So on we trudged, our lines rolled 
 up, and our fishing wallet (for baskets we 
 had none) properly adjusted. We soon 
 caught the descending stream — and, at a 
 pretty sharp turning, came, all at once. 
 
496 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 within view of the hospitable cottage ; but 
 to our surprise, there was neither noise 
 nor cavalcade — all was desolation and si- 
 lence around. The very dogs rather seem- 
 ed to challenge than to invite our advance, 
 and neither smoke nor bustle indicated any 
 preparation. At first I thought that I had 
 mistaken my way, and was upon the point 
 of entering to ascertain the fact, when the 
 shepherd presented himself in the door- 
 way. I then could hear the voice of mourn- 
 ing — " Rachel weeping" within, and the 
 boy lying across a half-demolished hay- 
 rick, crying and sobbing as if his heart 
 would burst. The face of the shepherd 
 was blank and awful — it was as if by a 
 sudden concussion of the brain he had lost 
 all recollection of the past. He stood 
 leaning against both lintels of the door, 
 and neither advanced nor retreated. At 
 last, hearing the voice of lamentation wax 
 louder and louder behind him, he turned 
 suddenly round and disappeared. Impress- 
 ed with the belief that something terrible 
 had happened, but not knowing the nature 
 or extent of it, I advanced to the boy, with 
 whom, as a fellow-fisher in the mountain 
 streams, I had made up an acquaintance 
 at the former meeting, and, taking him 
 firmly by the shoulder, endeavored to turn 
 his face towards me ; but he kept it con- 
 cealed in the hay, and refused either com- 
 miseration or comfort. The very dogs 
 seemed aware of the calamity, and one of 
 them howled mournfully from the corner 
 
 of a peat-stack adjoining. At last a woman, 
 with whom I was totally unacquainted, 
 emerged from the door-way and informed 
 us of the cause of all this lamentation. 
 She had been sent for as a relation from a 
 distance, and had only arrived a few hours 
 before. The particulars were as follows : 
 — Two days previous to the day set apart 
 for the marriage, the young, light-hearted 
 and blooming bride had been employed in 
 building a rick or stack of bog- hay, for 
 winter-fodder to the cow. She was in the 
 act of completing the erection, and stand- 
 ing on the contracted apex, vrhen her foot 
 slipped and she fell head foremost, and at 
 once dislocated her neck. Had there been 
 immediate medical assistance (as had been 
 injudiciously communicated to the family) 
 the fatal accident might have been reme- 
 died ; but alas ! there was not, and, long 
 ere surgical aid could be procured, the ill- 
 fated bride had ceased to breathe ! 
 
 The first thought of the household had 
 been directed towards the bridegroom, 
 who had, ever since the fatal tidings, lost 
 his reason and become apparently fatuous, 
 ever and anon insistino- that the weddins 
 should take place " for a' that !^' 
 
 We did not deem it proper, nor would 
 it have been so, to inflict our presence 
 upon such a household. And for months 
 after, I never slept without dreaming of 
 this incident, and of the distressed family 
 — of whose future fortunes I know nothing 
 further. 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 Amidst the many evils incident to hu- 
 manity, it may well be questioned whether 
 there is any calamity entitled to the de- 
 nomination of fortuitous, so appalling in 
 its magnitude and efi"ects as hereditary 
 madness. All language breaks down and 
 
 becomes feeble in the effort to give any 
 description of it, which, however, aided 
 by figures of thought or speech, can con- 
 vey a truer or stronger idea of its horrors 
 than can be produced from the bare con- 
 templation of the subject, as it is present- 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 49: 
 
 ed to ordinary minds. It is not, however, 
 after the disease has laid hold of its victim, 
 and reason is hurled from her throne, 
 that the form of the calamity, however it 
 may harrow the feelings of beholders, 
 presents its strongest claims upon the 
 sympathies of mankind. There is reason 
 to suppose, though we know little of the 
 true feelings of insane persons, that the 
 heir expectant is a much more miserable 
 creature than the heir in possession. The 
 tendency of the human mind to apprehend 
 evil — even where it is distant, and entire- 
 ly out of the view of all moral calculation 
 — is well known, and cannot be better 
 exemplified than by the effect produced 
 in the minds of healthy individuals, by a 
 continued perusal of medical books. In 
 the case of heirs of insanity, if we were to 
 calculate the intensity of misery produced 
 by the apprehension of their natural here- 
 ditary enemy — by the increase of risk 
 over the ordinary chance of any disease 
 capable of producing fear of its onset — we 
 would arrive at an amount of pain under 
 which human nature would sink and ex- 
 pire. Fortunately for these children of 
 misfortune, the proportion does not hold 
 equally in both cases ; but, after making 
 all the allowances that may be required, a 
 sum of misery remains to him who sees 
 his brothers and sisters cut down before 
 him^by the sword, which, when suspended, 
 is hung like that of Damocles, over his 
 head, sufficient to make us wonder at the 
 ways of Providence, which tempers the 
 blast to the shorn lamb. Our wonder is 
 increased, when we know that these un- 
 fortunates derive from their very calamity 
 a susceptibility which often shrinks from 
 the first breath of misfortune. Doubtless 
 the amount of pain and apprehension ex- 
 perienced is dreadful, as the case I am 
 about to describe sufficiently shows ; but 
 the question is difficult to be solved, how 
 nature works in the production of a result 
 BO strange as that such a misfortune can 
 at all be borne. 
 
 For many years I attended, as medical 
 
 VOL. If. 69 
 
 adviser, the family of Mr. Warden, who, 
 having renounced business as a merchant 
 in which he had amassed a large fortune, 
 retired to a country seat about two miles 
 from town, where he intended to pass the 
 remainder of his life. He had other 
 reasons for this retirement besides the 
 ordinary love of ease in advanced age ; 
 for a misfortune of an extraordinary na- 
 ture had befallen his family, which, though 
 absolutely beyond the powers of mitiga- 
 tion possessed by the art of man, might at 
 least be rendered less insupportable, by 
 being removed from the reach of the offi- 
 cious sympathy of a gazing world. This 
 misfortune was no other than the appear- 
 ance in his family of a most inveterate and 
 unsparing hereditary insanity — an evil 
 which seems to stand in solemn mockery 
 of triumph over all the other extraordinary 
 visitations of heaven. He had married 
 his wife in ignorance of a circumstance 
 which, however, might not, although he 
 had been aware of it, have overcome his 
 affection or determination to wed — the 
 insanity of her mother and grandfather, 
 besides that of several collaterals. The 
 disease had not appeared in her till she 
 had arrived at an advanced age ; but, at 
 the period of Mr. Warden's retirement, 
 she was confined in a private asylum, 
 where there were also two of her daugh- 
 ters, Elizabeth and Mary, young women 
 who could at one time boast of very con- 
 siderable personal attractions and mental 
 accomplishments. I had witnessed the 
 first outbreakings of the disease in the 
 youngest daughter, IMary ; and having 
 been thence led to make inquiry into the 
 history of their mother's relations, soon 
 saw the danger (immediately afterwards 
 realized) which impended over the whole 
 members of the family. Elizabeth, who 
 was about nineteen years of age, was 
 seized after her sister ; and then the 
 mother shared the fate she had uncon- 
 sciously been the means of producing to 
 her daughters. 
 
 It was with considerable difficulty that 
 
498 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 I could prevail upon Mr. Warden to con- 
 sent to the removal of Ins wife, from the 
 house she had rendered to him a sanctu- 
 ary of peace and happiness ; but the 
 violent type of her disease reconciled him 
 to a step which, when it was first proposed 
 to him, appeared to be beyond the powers 
 of his resolution and will. I consulted 
 the good of the unfortunate individuals 
 themselves in suggesting the place of their 
 confinement ; but there were others whose 
 peculiar situation demanded imperatively 
 the absence of the living monuments of 
 that fate which impended, with threaten- 
 ing aspect, like the stone of Tantalus, over 
 their own devoted heads ; and the very 
 spectacle of which, embodied in the mad- 
 ness of dear friends, might be the means 
 of- stimulating the hereditary poison which 
 lurked in their bosoms. Two other 
 daughters remained in the house with 
 their father after the removal of their 
 mother and sisters ; one of them, named 
 Martha, of a saturnine temperament, and 
 very liable to share the fate of her sisters ; 
 and the other, Isabella, the most beautiful 
 and accomplished of the family, and one 
 of the most extraordinary young ladies I 
 have ever met with. I received from the 
 unfortunate father — whose solicitude for 
 the health of his two remaining daughters 
 was proportioned to the grief he had ex- 
 perienced in the loss of the others — the 
 most anxious instructions to do all that 
 could be done for their safety and preser- 
 vation from the hereditary evil, which, 
 like an insidious serpent, lay coiled up in 
 their vitals, ready to start into living 
 action on the application of any extra- 
 ordinary cause of disturbance. The one, 
 Martha, 1 had, from the beginning, little 
 hope of being able to save from the fate 
 of her sisters, who, previous to their 
 seizure, exhibited fewer of the signs of 
 hereditary insanity than could by the 
 most unobservant person have been de- 
 tected in her dull eye, which seemed to 
 prefer resting on insanity to obeying in- 
 telligent impulses, or in her fits of melan- 
 
 choly and abstraction, into which, even in 
 the midst of conversation, she was continu- 
 ally in the habit of falling. My anticipa- 
 tions were too soon realized : about two 
 years after the removal of the mother, the 
 fourth victim was added to this implacable 
 power, and Isabella, the remaining daugh- 
 ter, was all that was left to the father of 
 one of the finest families in that part of 
 the country. 
 
 A calamity like that which I have here 
 plainly stated, produces a feeling of sur- 
 prise greater than might be expected 
 from what in this country is by no means 
 an unfrequent occurrence. Every effort 
 is taken, and naturally resorted to, for the 
 purpose of concealing the ravages made 
 by our national scourge, scrofula, on the 
 minds and bodies of the inhabitants of this 
 kingdom, where the demon seems to hold 
 his high court. I am satisfied that I am 
 much within the mark when I say, that 
 not one victim out of ten is ever known 
 to the public as being under the dominion 
 of this fell power. Parents who have 
 large families, have, besides their natural 
 wish, a deep interest in the concealment 
 of a fact which, in addition to rendering 
 their daughters unmarriageable, often 
 makes them objects of pity. In my expe- 
 rience, I have known instances where sons 
 and daughters, upon being consigned to a 
 madhouse, have been represented as sent 
 to foreign parts ; and, where the foct of 
 the disease will not otherwise conceal, 
 some scheme is generally devised for 
 giving it a false name, so that the credit 
 of the family may remain unaffected by 
 the disparaging and destructive influence 
 ofthis/a/«a malissi ma which attaches to 
 it. I say nothing of the effects produced 
 by this system of concealment on the 
 fortunes and happiness of the individuals 
 who, in ignorance, are united to the rela- 
 tives of the unfortunate beings. That is 
 a question of social polity. 1 mean mere- 
 ly to give a reason why the extraordinary 
 fate of the family of Mr. Warden may 
 excite a feeling of surprise, which would 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 499 
 
 not interfere with the province of pity, if 
 the frequency of such an eifect, from a 
 cause in daily operation, were better 
 known. 
 
 The remaining daughter of Mr. Warden 
 was, as I have said, a very extraordiiiary 
 young woman. I am not confident of ray 
 powers of presenting an adequate descrip- 
 tion of her ; for, independently of her 
 peculiar natural attributes, the unusual, 
 if not fearful situation in which she was 
 placed, reared up in her emotions and 
 feelings of a factitious nature, which 
 modified her original disposition, and pro- 
 duced a hind of being apart from ordinary 
 mortals, and very difficult to be described 
 or understood. She inherited from her 
 mother a very tall, commanding person, 
 remarkably handsome and well formed. 
 The saturnine constitution which prevail- 
 ed, more or less, throughout the family, 
 had fallen also, though not to an equal 
 extent with her sisters, to her lot ; but, in 
 place of producing the dark melancholy 
 aspect which I had observed in the rest 
 of the fiimily, it imparted to her merely a 
 paleness which contrasted remarkably 
 with an eye in which the enthusiasm of 
 the inspiration of genius seemed to be 
 continually burning. Her face was a 
 regular oval ; and every feature, from the 
 eyebrows to the lips, seemed to have re- 
 ceived the last touch of the fastidious hand 
 which had resolved upon producing the 
 most perfect effort of the chisel. In en- 
 deavoring to give some idea of the beauty 
 of this young woman, I am only afraid of 
 appearing to depart from the sober reason 
 which should regulate the burin employed 
 to delineate the every day truth of life. 
 I cannot be going too far, however, when 
 I say that I never saw what appeared to 
 me a more perfect model of the female 
 countenance — comprehending, as I do by 
 that phrase, the physical lineaments, and 
 that continual and inexpressible modifica- 
 tion of them produced by a highly intel- 
 lectual and sentimental mind, moulding 
 them into forms suited to its own inherent 
 
 sense of beauty. The chance of the oc- j 
 cm-rencc of so perfect a co-ordination and j 
 agreement between the highest conditions 
 of the moral and physical attributes of 
 human nature must be small indeed, when 
 I am constrained to admit that I never, 
 before or since, saw any individual in 
 which I could say I had found them in 
 such absolute perfection. 
 
 The enthusiasm of this young lady, 
 which imparted to her thoughts and feel- 
 ings a higli tone and an impassioned 
 character was, however, nearly allied to 
 the excitement which, taking another 
 form, had produced the insanity of her 
 family. The thin partition which sepa- 
 rates o-enius from madness has been often 
 noticed, and, in this instance, it seemed 
 as if the one might be seen passing into 
 the other. She had exhibited an early 
 taste for poetry of that kind which accord- 
 ed with the bold and intellectual caste of 
 her mind ; and I often remarked, as I 
 conversed with her, that her ordinary 
 speech- when it embraced an exalted sub- 
 ject, presented many of the features of the 
 expression of genius. She was in the 
 habit, as she confessed to me, of sending 
 fugitive pieces to the public prints ; and I 
 have seen some of her effusions on which 
 great praise was bestowed by those who 
 were entirely ignorant of the writer, and 
 which appeared to mj^self to be beautiful 
 in a very eminent degree. Her imagina- 
 tion was remarkably vivid and strong, and 
 the excitability of her feelings so tender 
 and acute, that she was continually suffer- 
 in «■ the greatest pain from the slightest 
 occurrences, at the very time that she was 
 exposed to misfortunes, nearly unparal- 
 leled in point of extent, as well as the 
 peculiarity of their kind. 
 
 J witnessed successively the effects pro- 
 duced upon the mind of one so peculiarly 
 constituted, by the calamities which befell 
 her mother and sisters, all of whom she 
 loved with even greater enthusiasm than 
 she displayed in the expression of the 
 most cherished of her feelings. The 
 
500 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 hereditary poison carried in the veins of | 
 her mother, had been very industriously j 
 concealed from the daughters ; and when ! 
 Mary first exhibited the undoubted symp- I 
 toms of the disease, Isabella looked upon j 
 the circumstance, in the midst of her j 
 grief, as altogether unconnected with any j 
 taint of the blood. When Elizabeth ex- j 
 perienced the fate of Mary, her mind, 
 quick and keen in the search of causes of 
 extraordinary events, began to work, and 
 she soon saw the extent of the awful truth, 
 which, in a short time after, was confirm- 
 ed by the madness of her mother and of 
 her remainino: sister, Martha. It seemed 
 to me to be extraordinary that one so con- 
 stituted could have withstood, as she did, 
 the fearful onset of these repeated misfor- 
 tunes ; but, though they did not cause 
 that madness they exemplified, they pro- 
 duced a state of mind perhaps not less 
 painful, either to the victim herself or 
 those who were forced to witness the work- 
 ings of a settled conviction, accompanied 
 with a continual apprehension, of follow- 
 ing the fate of the other members of her 
 family. 
 
 At Mr. Warden's request, I regularly 
 visited, twice a-week, this interesting and 
 unfortunate creature. The effect pro- 
 duced on her by the fate of the other 
 members of the family, was not attempted 
 by her to be concealed. She spoke open- 
 ly to her father and to me of the proba- 
 bility, nay, certainty, of becoming a vic- 
 tim to the same relentless power, which 
 she said she felt, though in a dormant 
 state, within the penetralia of her own 
 constitution. I myself was conscious that 
 she spoke the truth ; but, if I had been 
 called upon to say why I was of that 
 opinion, I am not certain if I could have 
 given any other reason for my belief, than 
 simply that the enthusiasm of her mind, 
 though not greater than that of indivi- 
 duals of genius, came unfortunately in aid 
 of the presumption against her, arising 
 from the hereditary taint. Mr. Warden 
 was secretly of the same opinion ; but the 
 
 thousht of seeing a creature so hiirhlv, 
 indeed wonderfully gifted with personal 
 and mental beauties and accomplishments, 
 changed, as her sisters had been, into the 
 raving maniac or drivelling idiot (for in 
 both these types the disease had shown 
 itself in the others), transcended appar- 
 ently all his remaining powers of endur- 
 ance, and he confessed to me, with tears 
 in his eyes, that, if Isabella followed the 
 fate of her sisters, he was afraid he would 
 be driven to the extremity of attempting 
 his own life. His entreaties to me were 
 incessant, that I should devote as great a 
 portion of my time as was in my power 
 towards endeavoring so to regulate the 
 personal and mental functions of his 
 daughter, as to ward from him and her 
 the calamities they respectively dreaded. 
 I felt too much anxiety and interest for the 
 interesting object herself — whose conver- 
 sation delighted me, while her elevated 
 sentiments and manners dignified human 
 nature itself — to require entreaties to 
 quicken my professional energies in her 
 behalf; but I knew too well how little was 
 in my power, and I could plainly see that 
 the penetrating mind of the young lady 
 herself placed no great reliance on human 
 powers, to rescue her from the perilous 
 situation in which she was placed. 
 
 Her greatest danger la}"- in that perturba- 
 tion of mind under which she labored, from 
 the excited state of her feelings. I have 
 known instances of violent grief ha\dng the 
 effect of stimulating a dormant mania. In 
 the present instance, the grief I^vliss War- 
 den experienced on the access of her fami- 
 ly calamity, was of the peculiar character 
 of the remaining victim who sees before 
 his eyes the process of the immolation of 
 his colleagues, at the moment he is listen- 
 ing to hear the knell of his own condem- 
 nation to a similar fate. Terror beino- 
 
 o 
 
 generall}^ a more powerful disturbing cause 
 than grief, is often able to expel, for a time, 
 the latter feeling from the mind, and I have 
 always found it a stronger agent in the ex- 
 citement of this hereditar}- disease. So 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 501 
 
 long, therefore, as the apprehension of a 
 siraihir fate occupied the mind of my pa- 
 tient, I had reason to tremble every day 
 for an attack ; and my first efforts were 
 naturally directed towards producing a 
 conviction that, so long as the ordinary 
 state of the body and mind could be kept 
 up — the one free from any derangement of 
 its economy, and the other tranquil and 
 natural — every hope might be reasonably 
 indulged of being able to perpetuate an ex- 
 emption from the calamity she feared. I 
 produced to her many instances, occur- 
 ring in my own practice, and collected 
 from medical books, of several members 
 of a family being saved out of the most 
 inveterate cases of confirmed hereditary 
 insanity ; and, indeed, in the very worst 
 and most aggravated visitations, I had often 
 remarked the curious fact, that there is gene- 
 rally an exemption to some extent, if it 
 should be limited even to one solitary in- 
 dividual. I added, that I had been often 
 led to meditate on this striking example 
 of the providence of Fate in the midst of 
 the sternest of its vindications ; and, though 
 1 could not pretend to account for it, on any 
 principle that would be received as satisfac- 
 ry by professional men, I could rely upon it 
 with sufficient confidence, to enable me to 
 impress my opinions with the seal of un- 
 doubted sincerity, when I led her to believe, 
 that she had every reason to expect the de- 
 sired exemption, if she followed my pre- 
 cepts in keeping up an equanimity of mind, 
 and ordinary health of the body. 
 
 " I fear," she replied, shaking her head, 
 " when you ask from me the condition of 
 keeping this mind tranquil, you desire 
 what these illuminated eyes declare never 
 can be conceded, by that which, alas ! has 
 not the gift to bestow. The ardent enthu- 
 siasm of my mind, and my morbid excita- 
 bility, are, I much fear, only the symptoms 
 of the presence within me of the same 
 spirit that, once roused, dethroned the 
 reason of my poor sisters and mother, and 
 consigned them to the dismal cells where 
 they now lie, weeping and tearing their 
 
 hair, and yet unconscious of the extent of 
 their calamity. I do not doubt your word 
 when you tell nie that you have often seen 
 members of a family spared from the most 
 inveterate visitations of this disease ; but 
 I cannot place much faith on what I do not 
 understand, even were I farther to admit 
 that there may be some reason for suppos- 
 ing the existence of a law against the oc- 
 currence of that ^ fell swoop' which clears 
 root and branch, the entire stock, and 
 leaves not a leaf to tell where the tree 
 grew. Faith in a good Providence rather 
 prompts the question. Why should I be 
 saved, to transmit misery to my descend- 
 ants ? But my heart, with an impatient 
 pulse, decides the question of my fate. I 
 feel that I must obey the power that exerts 
 its fearful dominion over our house. The 
 illumination of my fancy, when it is fired 
 with the enthusiasm of a burning spirit, 
 appears to me often as the first flash of 
 the scorching light, thrown forward by the 
 Fiend, to blind reason and make her a 
 more easy prey. I know you are my friend ; 
 and I claim the privilege of asking you to 
 tell me frankly when my enemy comes, 
 rather than deceive me by assurances that 
 he who is sent by a higher power will never 
 come. Oh ! who knows what it is to have 
 reason to doubt his reason !" 
 
 The eloquence she thus displayed in her 
 conversation had generally the effect of 
 silencing, for a time, my prosaic argu- 
 ments ; but I persevered in my humane 
 endeavors ; and even the conversations in 
 which I engaged with her blunted, in some 
 degree, the edge of her fears, by making 
 the subject familiar to her, and thus re- 
 duced the perturbation which a silent 
 brooding over apprehended ill might have 
 increased. I plainly saw that my efforts 
 to draw her from the subject which occu- 
 pied her mind were unavailing, and might 
 even be productive of bad effects, and 
 therefore never shrank from the task of 
 fairly meeting her impassioned arguments 
 with an open and unrestrained explication 
 of my thoughts in opposition to her views. 
 
502 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 The natural enthusiasm and activity of her 
 mind sometimes carried her away to her 
 favorite subjects of poetry and painting, 
 and afforded her some relief from the ap- 
 prehension that haunted her so unremit- 
 tingly ; but the dominant feeling was sure 
 again to resume its authority as soon as 
 the fit of enthusiasm had ended on the 
 performance which had exhausted her 
 new-born energies. 
 
 In common with all individuals of en- 
 thusiastic temperaments, I found her often 
 in alternate extremes of high feeling and 
 deep despondency — two states of the mind 
 which, I am inclined to think, exist almost 
 always as counterparts of equal though an- 
 tagonist powers, and are seldom if ever 
 found (at least as habits) separate and un- 
 connected. One day, a supernatural yet 
 delightful buoyancy, adding an additional 
 charm to beauties of the first order, would 
 have triumphed over her apprehensions, 
 and forced her to give egress to her high- 
 toned feelings in some exquisite lines of 
 poetry, or in the flights of a spirited and 
 sparkling conversation, which charmed and 
 enchained the ear of the individual who 
 was fortunate enough to be her compan- 
 ion at that auspicious time. In the even- 
 ing, again, of the same day, the genius 
 would have been found fled, and her som- 
 bre spirit brooding over the prevailing 
 feeling of apprehension, which seemed, 
 while this state of her mind lasted, to have 
 the power of marshalling all her thoughts 
 and feelings, and imparting to them the 
 atrabilious hue of its own darkness. 
 
 One ev'^ening when 1 called, her father 
 informed me that she had, during the fore- 
 part of the day, exhibited, to some indi- 
 viduals who delighted in her company, 
 great powers of sprightly fascinating con- 
 versation ; and some of them had confessed 
 to him that they did not conceive that it 
 was even in the power of inspiration to 
 paint, with the endless colors of fancy — 
 varying the tints and blending the delicate 
 hues into one beautiful whole — the various 
 subjects introduced and spoken on, in the 
 
 matchless manner she had that day ex- 
 hibited. The tear of pity followed close 
 on the look of pride, as the unfortunate 
 father added, that 1 would find her alto- 
 gether changed. I went into the room 
 where she was sitting, and saw at once that 
 she was in one of her deepest fits of de- 
 jection, with her accustomed relentless 
 apprehension exercising over her its usual 
 influence. Her brow was leant upon her left 
 hand, and before her lay a sheet of paper 
 containing some writing, over which she 
 was passing occasionally the fingers of her 
 right hand, on which some brilliant gems 
 shone brightly, as they presented, by the 
 motions, different angles to the light. She 
 started as I entered, but welcomed me 
 kindly when she discovered who it was 
 that had thus disturbed her reverie. I 
 asked her what she was studying so in- 
 tensely. 
 
 " This forenoon, " she replied, " after 
 the departure of some visitors, I took 
 advantage of an inspiration which my con- 
 versation with them had produced, and sat 
 down and composed a piece which 1 intend- 
 ed for 's Mao-azine. After it was 
 
 finished, my thoughts took a sudden turn, 
 and became entirely absorbed in the con- 
 templation of the condition of my mother 
 and sisters, sitting listless and miserable 
 in their places of confinement. I have 
 thought of this melancholy subject day 
 and night for a long period ; but I do not 
 recollect of ever having presented to me 
 with the same startling and terrific interest 
 the question — Why am I, one out of five, 
 alone exempted from this hereditary fate .' 
 1 cannot describe to you the feeling which 
 accompanied this self-put interrogation. 
 So strong was the conviction upon me that 
 I must submit, if I am not already subject- 
 ed to the grasp of the same power, that I 
 even applied to myself the term * fooP 
 and lau2;hed a hideous lauojh at the weak 
 and imbecile confidence J sometimes place 
 in the hope of escaping my destiny. The 
 frightful train of thought has continued to 
 this hour I am doubtful of myself, and 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 503 
 
 have been trying to discover in this paper 
 some traces of a wandering mind. Will 
 you read it, and tell me honestly, if you 
 find in any part of the composition a change 
 in the sentiment, or the want of a link in 
 the chain of thought. I know I can trust 
 you as a friend, and the reasons for my 
 fears are too strong to justify any suspicion 
 that I am hypochondriac or morbidly fan- 
 ciful." 
 
 I examined her eye as she continued her 
 speech ; but saw nothing to create any 
 alarm. I received from her hands the 
 paper, and found her composition to be a 
 very beautiful impassioned description of 
 the various sympathies that exist through- 
 out nature, ranged according to their 
 powers, and ending in an ascending scale 
 with love. The subject was delicatel}' and 
 beautifully handled ; and the only thing 
 which I could discover as being peculiar 
 in the composition, viewed as coming from 
 her, whoso pieces I had often read with 
 delight, was that it embraced a subjeet 
 she had generally shown a wish to avoid. 
 I took no notice of this peculiarity, and 
 confined my remarks to the manner in 
 which the piece was handled. I had no 
 difficulty in assuring her that the spirit of 
 the composition was continued uniformly 
 throughout, without lapse or failing, and 
 that, whatever turn her feclino;s misiht have 
 taken during the time occupied in the 
 work, no trace could be discovered in the 
 piece itself of any falling off of the spirit 
 and sentiment which dictated the first no- 
 ble line of it. With a view to change the 
 current of her thouo;hts, I enlaro-edon the 
 many beauties which the performance un- 
 doubtedly exhibited, and assured her that 
 the power she so much dreaded would 
 have no easy task to perform, in breaking 
 up a mind in which the elements of strength 
 were as well marked as those of taste and 
 beauty. 
 
 " You know I held your promise," she 
 said, with an air of sombre satisfaction, 
 " that 3^ou would watch the changes of my 
 mind, and inform me honestly of those 
 
 turns of which we are often entirely uncon- 
 scious, though they exhibit the first strug- 
 gles of the frightened intellect, as it shrinks 
 from the aspect of the dreadful enemy of 
 reason. I am assured, by what you say, 
 that he is not yet come ; though 1 fear the 
 visit is only delayed. When will this 
 cease } What I am for ever feelin<^, all 
 the powers of inspiration could but faintly 
 delineate. What I have suffered within 
 this hour, I defy the most pregnant fancy 
 to shadow forth, even doubtfully. Need 
 I say more than that I was under the con- 
 viction that I was as my sisters and 
 mother are } My terrors produced the 
 confusion they feared. I scanned that 
 paper till the words reeled before my eyes, 
 and sense, reason, and intelligence were 
 lost in the whirlpool of a fancied madness. 
 I held out my hands and looked around 
 me for aid ; but my fevered imagination 
 could discover nothing but the tenanted 
 cells of that place of confinement where 
 those nearest and dearest to me lie in ao-o- 
 ny and tears, and whither I fancied myself 
 dragged, helpless, and powerless, from the 
 binding ropes by which my arms were 
 confined. Now I feel a modified relief 
 again — and thus am I doomed to an end- 
 less succession of periods of enthusiasm, 
 and fits of melancholy and terror." 
 
 I was not in any degree surprised at this 
 eloquent description of her feelings ; for I 
 have seen instances of individuals of sober 
 habits of thought, who, under the fear of 
 hereditary insanity to which they were ex- 
 posed, fancied, on certain occasions, that 
 they were truly under the power of their 
 enemy. But I do not think I ever had a 
 patient who possessed so many claims on 
 my feelings as this child of genius and 
 misrortune exhibited with such unconscious 
 power. An adverse fate had furnished a 
 reason for her apprehension which a stoic 
 philosopher, in the midst of all his triumph 
 over the feelings of human nature, could 
 not have disregarded ; while her suscepti- 
 bility, the very offspring of her dangerous 
 constitution, and itself the parent of so 
 
504 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 many of the exquisite beauties of her 
 character, kept her continually either on 
 the stretch of an enthusiastic excitement, 
 which made near approaches to the state 
 she dreaded, or on the rack of a false con- 
 viction that she was deranged, or about to 
 lose her reason. I felt acutely the misery 
 of her situation ; and, as she sat silently 
 before me, after having poured forth, with 
 the volubility of her genius, the speech I 
 have hero copied, I felt myself restrained, 
 by some powerful feeling I could not de- 
 scribe, from arraying the cold arguments 
 of reason against the impulses of a feeling 
 lying, perhaps, deeper in human nature 
 than the boasted results of our coolest 
 judgments. I could not, however, allow 
 this opportunity to escape of impressing 
 her with a proper sense of the fallacy of 
 those indications which she had mistaken 
 for the beginnings of the disease she so 
 much feared, and of satisfying her of a 
 circumstance she was entirely ignorant of 
 — viz., that madness carried with it no 
 conviction of its presence ; but rather, on 
 the contrary, a scepticism of the actual 
 condition of the patient, and a false confi- 
 dence of the possession of reason. This 
 latter circumstance, which she received at 
 once upon my authority opened up to her 
 mind some new views of her condition. 
 She saw at once, the impossibility of her 
 being able to judge of the change she an- 
 ticipated ; and trembled to think that she 
 might go mad and not know that she was 
 in the same melancholy situation as her 
 sisters and mother. I replied to her state- 
 ments on this subject, that she might ra- 
 ther consider it an amelioration of her con- 
 dition to be ignorant of tb.e nature of her 
 calamity — a proposition to which she yield- 
 ed a qualified assent ; while the fearful 
 doubt which it threw over all the workings 
 of her consciousness seemed to add to the 
 misery of her feelings. 
 
 The new views of her situation which 
 she drew from the information thus pro- 
 cured, changed materially the aspect of 
 her mind. She seemed to give up that 
 
 continual watch over the rise and progress 
 of her thoughts she had persisted in for a 
 long period of time ; but the fear of be- 
 coming mad did not abate in any percep- 
 tible degree. I noticed, however, some 
 time afterwards, that, in place of showing 
 an anxiety to speakupon the subject which 
 occupied her mind, and produced in her 
 so much alarm, she shrank from the slight- 
 est allusion to it. She gave up entirely 
 all mention of her mother and sisters, and 
 did not even ask me how they were. It 
 appeared as if she wished the melancholy 
 catastrophe concealed, and all mention of 
 it suspended or renounced. I was much 
 at a loss to account for this change ; but 
 I thought she now saw the propriety of 
 banishing from her mind all thoughts of 
 the fearful subject which had so long oc- 
 cupied it — a circumstance of the utmost 
 importance to her ultimate safety ; and I 
 was hopeful that, if she kept herself active- 
 ly occupied by her mental pursuits, sho 
 might escape the fate which impended over 
 her. I mentioned the subject of this fa- 
 vorable aspect of his daughter's situation 
 to Mr. Warden, but was informed by him 
 that, while he was also well pleased with 
 the change that had passed over her, he 
 was inclined to attribute it to a different 
 cause. I now ascertained that an Eng- 
 lish gentleman, of considerable fortune, 
 had some time before been introduced to 
 the house, and having been struck (as in- 
 deed every individual was who saw her) 
 with her transcendant beauty and accom- 
 plishments, had paid her great homage. I 
 had met the individual at the house ; and, 
 on casting my mind backwards on some cir- 
 cumstances that had occurred in my pre- 
 sence, I became satisfied that Mr. Gordon 
 had been for some time enamoured of her ; 
 and also that she had regarded him with 
 tokens of greater favor than she had award- 
 ed to many visitors who seemed to vie with 
 each other in their claims on the attention 
 of one so highly gifted with the powers of 
 communicating delight to all around her. 
 I did not forget in my reminiscences the 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 505 
 
 subject of the literary composition which 
 I had so much admired, and which had 
 been to herself the cause of so much men- 
 tal disquietude. It occurred to me that 
 the occasion on which that piece was com- 
 posed had been the first impulse of her 
 afiection — a change from her prior state of 
 mind, sufficiently great to produce the illu- 
 sion of a supposed madness under which 
 she labored. 
 
 On the occasion of my next interview 
 with her, I enjoyed the advantage of pos- 
 sessing this key to her feelings. I found 
 her engaged in copying a miniature, which 
 she excused herself for not exhibiting to 
 me. I could now trace with considerable 
 certainty the operations of her mind. She 
 had clearly contracted an affection for Mr. 
 Gordon, against her own solemn resolu- 
 tions. In her prior conversations with 
 me, she did not hesitate to avow her de- 
 termination never to enter into the state 
 of marriage — reprehending warmly the 
 impolicy and cruelty of entailing upon a 
 husband and a family all the effects of a 
 hereditary calamity, which ought to be 
 terminated in one generation. These 
 were the dictates of a wise judgment ; but 
 her extreme susceptibility had not been 
 consulted when she formed these senti- 
 ments and resolutions. The appearance 
 of Mr. Gordon, a gentleman well calcu- 
 lated to call forth the affections of one 
 who had so much love to bestow, had pro- 
 duced an effect which subverted all her 
 principles of conduct, and even overcame, 
 at least for a time, her dreadful terror of 
 becoming a victim to her relentless family 
 disease. I now saw plainly the reason 
 why she avoided the subject which used 
 to form the topic of our conversation. 
 While her mind was unoccupied with a 
 stronger feeling, the former terror reigned 
 supreme and all-powerful ; but, after the 
 heart had taken up the cause of nature 
 and instinct, against the factitious fears of 
 a too susceptible mind, the right of domi- 
 nation was transferred to another and a 
 gentler tyrant, whose sway was necessarily 
 
 exclusive of any other power. Her spirits 
 now seemed to be in the highest altitudes 
 of her cxtremest enthusiasm ; and, while I 
 experienced all that delight I had so often 
 felt in the conversation of one so pecu- 
 liarly gifted, I wished from my heart that 
 this new cause of excitement might not be 
 changed into an evil, the effects of which 
 might reach far beyond my worst antici- 
 pations. 
 
 Some time afterwards she sent for me. 
 I called, and found her confined to her 
 room. She was in one of her gloomy 
 moods, appeared pale and spiritless, and 
 was clearly again under her relentless ap- 
 prehension. She beckoned me to sit near 
 her. 
 
 " There is in our sex," she said, in a 
 slow and tremulous voice, " a delicacy 
 which covers up and conceals — as the 
 pigeon does by its wing, its wounded side 
 — that feeling which is the most natural 
 affection of the heart. A woman will not 
 confess her love, till it be either gratified 
 or overcome. A week asro I was in the 
 situation of others of my sex, who have 
 felt this peculiarity of female affection. 
 You found me on your last visit copying a 
 miniature ; but no power on earth could 
 have dragged from me then the admission 
 that my heart had anticipated my pencil, 
 and treasured up the lineaments of that 
 face. Since that day a change has come 
 over my mind. When was it that a wo- 
 man was destined to tremble at her own 
 love ? When were the workings of con- 
 science directed against the purest passion 
 of human nature ? When did a woman 
 drag from her heart, in opposition to the 
 antagonist energies of her nature, that 
 most sacred of all secrets, for the very 
 purpose of destroying it by that poison it 
 shrinks from, and fears most as its natural 
 enemy — the breath of popular opinion ? 
 You may well conceive the state of a wo- 
 man's mind when she thus confesses an 
 affection, which, in its still youthful vi- 
 gor, clings to the heart and will not quit 
 it. You have seen Mr. Gordon, and may 
 
506 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 have perceived that he was worthy of the 
 love of the fairest and best of our sex ; 
 but his powers over the heart of woman 
 may be best known from the fact, that he 
 overturned for a time the resolution of 
 years, and banished from my mind all 
 those feelino-s and sentiments which have 
 arisen from the circumstances of my ex- 
 traordinary situation, and been cherished 
 and nourished by my enthusiasm as well 
 as by reason. The new impulse staggered 
 me by the sweet intoxication of its instinc- 
 tive power. Like a criminal, I secreted 
 the gift of nature as a thing stolen from 
 man. My conscience rebelled against the 
 authority of my heart ; and my health has 
 suffered from the struggle." 
 
 She paused, apparently with the view 
 of recovering strength to proceed with her 
 extraordinary communication. I conceiv- 
 ed that I now possessed an opportunity of 
 declaring my opinion, that marriage, in 
 place of stimulating the lurking mania, 
 has rather a tendency to subdue it. I have 
 always found celibates more exposed to an 
 attack of hereditary madness than married 
 individuals — a fact which may not be con- 
 sidered consistent with the beneficence of 
 Providence, in so far as it tempts to a 
 perpetuation of this fearful entail ; but we 
 have little authority to speak of final 
 causes, while we remain so ignorant as we 
 are of the true secret of the most common 
 of the acts of nature. I, therefore, con- 
 scientiously assured her, that, by entering 
 into a state of marriage with a man, and 
 under circumstances, calculated to make 
 her happy (which, however, I did not 
 recommend), she had many additional 
 chances of avoiding- the fate oi her sisters. 
 My opinion did not seem to have much 
 weight with her. 
 
 "• Then," said she, " I would at least 
 have but a chance or two more added to 
 a case nearly desperate. I cannot listen 
 to an argument whose conclusion is so im- 
 potent. The original fact is insuperable. 
 I cannot conceal from myself, that I carry 
 in the tame veins that throb with this un- 
 
 fortunate love, the subtle living principle 
 of mania, ready and eager to seize the op- 
 portunity of the first cerebral disturbance 
 (and marriage itself might produce that) 
 to unseat reason and drive the economy of 
 the mind into anarchy, rebellion, and ruin. 
 Mr. Gordon has had the art to make me 
 love him ; but I am betrothed to a fate 
 which may assert its prior right, and drag 
 me from his arms, a maniac . The very 
 love which I have felt and still feel for 
 this generous stranger, rebels against the 
 cruel purpose of allying him to a calamity 
 of such a fearful magnitude ; and is it not 
 enough that I carry the demon coiled up 
 in my own brain, but I must send down 
 through my blood to descendants, for ge- 
 nerations, its hereditary poison, to madden 
 innocent, unconscious beings, and quicken 
 their tongues to vain cursings of their cru- 
 el, selfish ancestress ? I have expressed 
 these sentiments to you before ; and, O 
 God I how was it that, in the intoxication 
 of a new feeling, I, for a time, forgot them ! 
 But they rose upon me in my first calm 
 moment ; and the greatest power that ever 
 inspired the pen which has often deline. 
 ated to your declared satisfaction my en- 
 thusiastic emotions, would quail at the 
 task of conveying a shadow of the agony 
 I endured in the struggle between my feel- 
 ings and my reason. My altered looks 
 have more eloquence than my speech, and 
 the madness 1 have so long feared may 
 tell with its Babel tongue what reason re- 
 nounces in despair." 
 
 I asked her whether Mr. Gordon had 
 declared himself to her, and whether he 
 knew of the peculiar position of her family. 
 
 '' Great delicacy," she replied, " has 
 prevented him hitherto, hearen be praised I 
 from declaring; to me in words the state 
 of his heart. He asked me (doubtless the 
 device of a delicate lover), to copy bis 
 miniature for him. Every trace of my 
 pencil was reflected by my heart. I rose 
 from my work to tremble at the change 
 which had come over me ; I saw the dan- 
 ger into which I was rushing, dragging with 
 
THE HEIRESS OP MSANITY. 
 
 507 
 
 me an unconscious victim to the shrine 
 of our family Moloch, and called up for- 
 titude enough to request my father to con- 
 vey to him the original and the copy. He 
 is, comparatively, a stranger in these 
 parts, and may be, as I think he is, igno- 
 rant of the misfortune that haunts our un- 
 happy house. This idea stung me re- 
 proachfully. I looked upon myself as a 
 deceiver, occupied in throwing the toils 
 round the body of a generous unsuspect- 
 ing victim. I was conscious of being in- 
 capable of proceeding to any serious ex- 
 tent without informing him of the danger 
 that awaited him ; but I shuddered as I 
 thought that his heart might already be 
 committed in ignorance of what should 
 ha'«'e been communicated on the very 
 threshold of his affection ; but, oh ' how 
 fervently have I returned thanks to heaven 
 for the timeous interference, for his safety 
 and mine, of the powers of my better judg- 
 ment ! Now at least the paramount evil 
 shall be eschewed, whatever may beeome 
 of this heart ; and, oh ! better that it 
 should break with the grief of my own 
 stifled passion, than with the agony of a 
 husband looking with eyes that know not 
 the relief of tears on the insane heirs of a 
 mad mother." 
 
 There was, generally, in all the conver- 
 sations of this young woman, such a mix- 
 ing up of strong feelings and rational ar- 
 guments, that 1 was always at a loss to 
 answer her in such a way as to yield sa- 
 tisfaction either to myself or her. No 
 reason appeared of much importance to 
 her, unless, like her own thoughts, it was 
 accompanied with the necessary garnish 
 of feeling or sentiment. In the present 
 instance, I was in greater difficulty than I 
 had ever feit in ker presence. Her own 
 arguments against marriage were, besides 
 being deeply rooted in her mind, too well 
 founded in reason to admit of my con- 
 scientiously endeavoring to refute them; 
 and, besides, I bad no right to implicate, 
 by my interforcacc, the rights and happi- 
 ness of a third individual, Mr. Gordon, 
 
 who had perhaps a greater interest in the 
 affair than the lady herself. On the other 
 hand, I too plainly perceived that her 
 heart was affected by a strong passion ; 
 and, from what I knew of her mental con- 
 stitution, I was satisfied that the greatest 
 danger, both to her mind and body, must 
 inevitably result from an affection of so 
 peculiar a nature remaining ungratified ; 
 or rather being attempted, by the strug- 
 gles of an opposing reason, to be stifled in 
 the heart itself. The excitement pro- 
 duced by such a conflict, or the depres- 
 sion consequent upon the death of the 
 passion, was sufficient to realize the an- 
 ticipated danger of her hereditary disease. 
 There was thus great reason for the ap- 
 prehension of evil on either side ; and I 
 felt that all that I could safely do in her 
 behalf was to endeavor to keep her mind 
 as calm as possible, and wait the issues of 
 time, either in affording her new lights, or 
 in carrying off the deep impression appa- 
 rently made on her heart by one whose 
 avocations might require his absence from 
 that part of the country. I endeavored, 
 accordingly, to impress her with the ex- 
 pediency of keeping her mind occupied ; 
 and recommended to her several subjects 
 for the employment of her pen, in execut- 
 ing which she would find relief from the 
 morbid thoughts that oeeupied her mind. 
 On calling tAvo days afterwards, I un- 
 derstood from her father that Mr. Gordon 
 had construed the return of his miniature 
 and the copy through the hands of her 
 parent as an indication? that she did not 
 regard him favorably, and had accordingly 
 returned on the previous day to England. 
 This fact had been communicated to hor 
 by her father. I was unable to form any 
 probable guess of the effec-t this would 
 produce on a mind so peculiarly consti- 
 tuted. Her father seemed to be rather 
 well pleased at the circumstance, and was 
 resolved not to allow his dauEfhter to be 
 again exposed to the action of feelings 
 which seemed to threaten the overthrow 
 of her reason,. I was inclined to be of 
 
508 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDEPwS. 
 
 opinion that the absence of Mr. Gordon 
 mi'^ht prove beneficial ; but I was doubtful 
 of the mode of his withdrawal, which, being 
 imputed to a rejection by one whose heart 
 was altogether occupied by a strong pas- 
 sion for him, might produce a feeling of 
 having acted cruelly and ungratefully — 
 a state of the female mind too favorable 
 to the increase of an affection. 
 
 Upon my entering the apartment, my 
 fears were partially realized. She was 
 confined to bed. She was ill: a high 
 pulse, flushed face, and restless eyes be- 
 tokened an excitement of the system of 
 the greatest danger to one so peculiarly 
 situated. 
 
 " My father has informed me," she said, 
 almost immediately on recognizing me, 
 " that Mr. Gordon is gone to England. 
 This has produced in me a mixed feeling 
 of satisfaction and regret. 1 am pleased 
 I have escaped the danger 1 so much 
 dreaded, of visiting on the heads of others 
 and perpetuating a calamity that ought to 
 end in one generation ; but I am grieved 
 to think that my motives should have been 
 misconstrued by one I cannot but love 
 and admire. He has imputed, doubtless, 
 to a feeling of unworthy pride and disdain 
 what ought to have been attributed to af- 
 fection and generosity ; but he is innocent 
 of any wish to misconstrue my conduct or 
 depreciate my motives ; and he is now, 
 perhaps, suffering the pangs of a rejected 
 and despised affection, at the very moment 
 when I am tortured by the thought of be- 
 ing considered ungrateful and cruel to the 
 object on whom my heart still dotes. Was 
 ever mortal exposed to such ingeniously- 
 •contrived misery ? Is there no mode by 
 which this can be remedied } Is it not 
 possible yet to convey to him the time 
 cause of my rejection of his proffered suit 
 — that it was affection itself that rose in 
 arms against the cruelty I meditated 
 against a noble, generous-minded man? 
 Were he satisfied of this, my mind would 
 be relieved ; and the burning fever that 
 threatens to stimulate the poison of my 
 
 hereditary disease, may be quenched be- 
 fore reason is precipitated from her throne. 
 You are my friend, you are also my doc- 
 tor ; in both capacities, I ask you, I im- 
 plore you, to devise some means of taking 
 from my brain this burden which threatens 
 to crush it to ruins as bleak and terrible 
 as the fragments of that melancholy wreck 
 which has overtaken the minds of my mo- 
 ther and sisters. Know you the part of 
 Enfijland to which he has <:rone ? His fa- 
 ther's seat is near the Borders. He may 
 be there. What can I su^trest ? I can- 
 
 CO 
 
 not ask my father to write to him — I can- 
 not write myself. Relieve me of the 
 thought of devising a remedy for this 
 pressing evil. There are many things 
 which the kindness of friends can supply, 
 when no powers are left to us to help our- 
 selves ; and I rely on your friendship, 
 which I have ever found sincere and un- 
 changeable." 
 
 I told her that I would consider of some 
 means of relieving her mind from the bur- 
 den which lay upon it. She seized my 
 hand as 1 replied, and pressed it fervently, 
 as if she meant, by that mode of expres- 
 sion of her feelings, to impress me with 
 the deep importance of the commission 
 with which she had intrusted me. I was 
 somewhat at a loss for a proper construc- 
 tion of her conduct. I was aware of the 
 effect which a sense of ingratitude would 
 produce upon a mind so generous as hers, 
 and so frauo;ht with the nicest delicacies 
 of the most elevated of her sex ; and yet 
 I secretly imagined, that there was pre- 
 sent, as an additional cause of unhappi- 
 ness, the regret of the lover at the loss of 
 the object of her affections — a thought that 
 bore in upon me, in spite of all the faith 
 I had in the sincerity of her views regard- 
 ing marriage, and in the generosity of 
 those sentiments that dictated the wish to 
 avoid implicating another in the calamity 
 to which she was exposed. I went and 
 consulted with her father whether her 
 extraordinary wish should be complied 
 with. He was not partial to an exposure 
 
THE HEIRESS OF INSANITY. 
 
 509 
 
 of the misfortunes of his family, and asked 
 me whether I thought any danger might 
 result to his daughter from a refusal of 
 her request. I answered that I thought 
 every reasonable measure should be taken 
 to allay the excitement of her mind ; and, 
 seeing that the circumstance of their fami- 
 ly calamity was already well known, and 
 probably even in the knowledge of Mr. 
 Gordon himself, no great evil could accrue 
 from this divulgement ; while, if I were 
 enabled to declare to her upon my sincerity 
 that her wish had been fulfilled, great 
 hopes might be entertained of the sedative 
 effects of time restoring her to her wonted 
 condition of mind and body. My answer 
 was satisfactory ; but he suggested that the 
 communication should not be made in 
 writing, but at a personal interview with 
 Mr. Gordon, who would come from his 
 father's, in Cumberland, upon a short no- 
 tice that his presence was requested in 
 this quarter. I concurred in this sugges- 
 tion, and undertook to make the necessary 
 explanations. 
 
 I accordingly wrote to Mr. Gordon, re- 
 questing him to take the trouble of visit- 
 ing me within as shorr a period as his 
 avocations would permit, and, in the mean- 
 time, I called again upon my patient. 
 She was still very feverish, and her excite- 
 ment had not in any degree abated. She 
 asked me, the moment I entered, whether 
 I had taken any measure for the relief of 
 her mind. I answered that I had written 
 for Mr. Gordon to visit me, and expected 
 him in a few days, when I would make 
 the necessary communication to him per- 
 sonally. 
 
 "I am beholden to you," she cried, 
 " in a life of thanks and blessings, for this 
 exhibition of your friendship. Why should 
 your profession limit its range to the use 
 of physical medicaments .'' Ycu have 
 done more for the return of my health by 
 this application of a moral remedy, than 
 if you had prescribed for me all the secrets 
 of your dispensary. My conscience shall 
 be relieved, and I can, as I have hitherto 
 
 done, reflect with pleasure on that nobili- 
 ty of sentiment which it is my pride to re- 
 tain sacred and uninjured amidst all the 
 perils of a bad world, and which, if it ever 
 perish, I could wish to fall in the ruins of 
 the mind itself. But what if he wish to 
 see me, and cast over me again the 
 charm which has produced all this 
 misery f Counsel me freely. Can ] 
 trust myself in his presence, even with 
 the ffuard of that frio;htful knowledge 
 he is soon to receive ? Why should 
 I tremble at the intercourse of liberal 
 sentiment with the man I still admire, 
 when it shall be understood that we 
 cannot be united } Is not this a weak- 
 ness unworthy of me, which I should 
 endeavor to overcome, as an enemy to 
 the happiness I might experience in 
 the society of so noble a man ? Yet 
 I know best the powers of my own 
 mind and heart. Hitherto I have re- 
 lied upon the dictates of my own 
 judgment, which has never failed me 
 even in the emergency of love. " Will 
 you tell me" (looking anxiously in my 
 face) " whether Mr. Gordon wishes 
 ao-ain to see Isabella Warden .'" 
 
 CD 
 
 I informed her that I would comply 
 with her request. I was now rather 
 confirmed in my former idea, that love 
 still held an ascendency over her judg- 
 ment, however she might flatter herself 
 that she had conquered the insidious 
 power. On returning home, I found a 
 letter from Mr. Gordon, saying he 
 would visit me within two days. He 
 came accordingly, apparently with bet- 
 ter will than 1 had to ask him. He 
 suspected that the object I had in view 
 was in some degree connected with the 
 family of Mr. Warden ; and Love had 
 lent him the use of his wings. After 
 being seated, I opened to him, by a 
 preliminary statement, the subject of 
 my communication, and, as I proceeded 
 with my interesting recital — recounting 
 the calamity which had befallen Mr. War- 
 den's family, the beauty and noble-mind- 
 
510 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 edncss of Isabella, her reason for rejecting 
 his suit, and her request that he should 
 be made aware of that reason — I watch- 
 ed carefully the effect produced on him. 
 I perceived nothing but satisfaction on 
 his countenance as I approached the de- 
 licate part of my narrative, and was sur- 
 prised to hear him state, in answer, 
 that he was all along well aware of 
 the calamity under which Mr. Warden's 
 family labored; but that such was the 
 effect produced on his mind by the 
 transcendent beauty, great mental parts, 
 delightful manners, and nobility of mind 
 of Miss Warden, that he had resolved, in 
 the event of his suit being accepted, to 
 run all the hazards, and marry this incom- 
 parable woman It was scarcely necessary 
 for me to ascortain, by a question, whether 
 he wished to see her. His affjction for 
 her, he declared, was stronger than 
 ever. 
 
 Within a few hours after, I called on 
 Isabella. I communicated to her the im- 
 port of the conversation I had had with 
 Mr. Goidon. My statement produced in 
 her mind a great conflict of feelings ; and 
 I never had greater reason to fear the ef- 
 fects of her excitement than I had on that 
 occasion. 
 
 " How is this heart to be resolved .-" 
 she said, with great anxiety of counten- 
 ance, and an agitation that shook her de- 
 licate frame. " The reasons and argu- 
 ments of years of meditation, seem to lose 
 in my mind their accumulated force, and 
 I tremble at a chancfo over which I have 
 no control. My mental efforts are palsied 
 by the sense of what I owe to the man 
 who has said he will dare all the evils that 
 accompany my flite, and, for my worthless 
 sake, risk the mighty stake of his happi- 
 ness for life. His love for me was nothing 
 to this declared resolution. What shall 
 aid my judgment in resisting the force of 
 one generous heart on another ? You 
 know, sir, my sentiments on marriage. 
 Shall I depute you to request him not to 
 ask to see me ? — say, my friend, shall I 
 
 supplicate his return instantly to Cumber- 
 land ? Yet, God ! what a reward would 
 that be for such unparalleled generosity 
 of soul ! — I must, I feel I must, thcuik him. 
 Surely so poor a boon as thanks cannot 
 make me bankrupt in my prudential re- 
 solves. But I can deliver to you no mes- 
 sajje. You have heard me — I have 
 scarcely heard myself. Oh, my poor 
 heart ! — break — break, or be resolved !" 
 
 As she concluded this speech, which 
 seemed to be merely the outspoken work- 
 ino;s of her mind, in its efforts to come to 
 some conclusion, she reclined backwards, 
 much exhausted. I could easily perceive 
 the bent of her inclinations. I gazed up- 
 on the beautiful victim of a state of men- 
 tal constitution and feelings in all respects 
 so extraordinary. I saw plainly that she 
 loved ardently, and that her love had all 
 but conquered those determinations against 
 marriage that had resulted as well from 
 her morbid fancies as from her legitimate 
 conclusions of prudence and high-minded- 
 ness. I never saw one, and may never 
 again see one, in the same position. She 
 looked upon me as if I were the arbiter of 
 her fate ; her beautiful countenance ex- 
 hibited all the traces of mental agony ; 
 and the piteous and supplicatory glances 
 of her black eyes, as she occasionally 
 withdrew them from my face, fixed them 
 on the OTOund, and lifted them aijain to 
 beseech, with their mute eloquence of 
 prayer, my assistance in resolving her ex- 
 traordinary doubt — went to my very soul 
 I was now, however, better prepared for 
 answering her, because I now saw that 
 there was less danger in restraininsr an af- 
 fection so strong as hers, than in gratify- 
 ing it by a union with the man of her 
 affections. 
 
 '' Your heart, Isabella," said I, taking 
 up her last words, " shall not break. It 
 shall be bound up with the cords of a pure 
 affection — a sanctified love. You must 
 give Mr. Gordon something else than 
 thanks for coming from Cumberland to 
 renew a suit that you had rejected without 
 
THE HEIRESS OP INSANITY. 
 
 511 
 
 a word of explanation. He is, indeed, a 
 noble individual, and calculated to make 
 you happy." 
 
 " You fill me witli shuddering appre- 
 hensions," she cried, hysterically. " What 
 is this ? Are all the resolutions of a life 
 crumbling down in the view of a- tremb- 
 ling, inane, palsied consciousness ? Is 
 love stronger than the convictions of the 
 last victim of five wedded to our family 
 Genius of Evil ? But does he know that 
 I am the last of five .'' Are you sure that 
 that generous man knows the dreadful 
 truth.? Speak, my friend — assure me of 
 that — there is in it some secret medicinal 
 balm whose virtues I feel stealing about 
 this aching heart," 
 
 " He knows all, Isabella," replied I, 
 *' and will venture all for the great love he 
 bears to her he conceives to be the noblest 
 of her sex. Excuse me — I use his words. 
 Flattery belongs not to my profession." 
 
 As 1 said these words, her excitement 
 seemed to abate, and she reclined gently 
 on the couch on which she sat, with her 
 eyes fixed on the wall of the apartment, 
 and her face exhibiting the traces of a soft 
 pensiveness, mixed with an expression of 
 a pleasant resignation to some power she 
 had resisted and could no longer resist. 
 She remained in this position for some 
 time, and I waited the issue of the work- 
 ings of her peculiar mind. At last she 
 turned and fixed her eyes upon my coun- 
 tenance. A clear tear had collected, and 
 stood glistening, like a pearl oa a ball of 
 jet. She held out her hand and placed it 
 in mine. 
 
 *' Shall it be ?" she said, in a voice that 
 sounded in my ear like soft music ; and the 
 tear fell w'ith the words. 
 
 1 paused in my reply, not from any 
 doubt of what I ought to say, but because 
 I felt the extraordinary power over the 
 future fortunes of so beautiful a creature, 
 placed in my hands, as a responsibility 
 entirely new to me, and, therefore, more 
 serious than that to which we are accus- 
 tomed in our position as medical advisers. 
 
 She appeared to drink up my very looks 
 — she wished and feared, anticipated and 
 trembled — the blood came and went, and 
 the tear started and dried up, as the two 
 antagonist emotions alternated their ener- 
 gies over her heart. 
 
 " Isabella," said I, holding her hand, 
 *' you attempted what was beyond the 
 power of even a cold-hearted, calculating 
 woman, and far more beyond the power of 
 one so gifted as you are with the finer sen- 
 sibilities and susceptibilities of the female 
 heart. You were made for love, and you 
 might as well try to live without the 
 nourishment of nature, as to choke the 
 natural passion which glows in your heart 
 with the appliance of a cold result of judg- 
 ment. Sorely, Isabella, have you mis- 
 calculated the powers of female affec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Alas ! it is true !" she muttered, 
 with a deep-drawn sigh, and reclining her 
 head again upon the couch pillow. " In 
 this hour do I feel the vanity of all my 
 accumulated resolutions of many years. 1 
 thoua;ht 1 was fightins; for the cause of hu- 
 manity, for the well-being of generations 
 to come, for the diminution of physical 
 evil, for God's goodness and man's bene- 
 fit. Where — where are all my high aspi- 
 rations now ? Alas ! how nearly allied 
 are the greatest virtue and the greatest 
 weakness ! I had thought my cause an 
 afiair of the heart ; but, ah ! there was a 
 power there before the one I placed in it 
 as sovereio-n ruler — and now I feel its 
 paramount strength." 
 
 She sighed deeply as she told the issue 
 of all her high and noble purposes. Turn- 
 ing her eyes again upon me — 
 
 " When is he to call .^" she asked, with 
 a blush that spread up over her temples. 
 
 " When I give him notice," replied I. 
 
 " And when will that be .^" she added, 
 with a naivete that forced a smile from 
 me, which she instantly observed, and 
 then tried to correct herself. 
 
 " I mean — I mean," she continued, 
 with a broken voice, and a renewal of her 
 
512 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 })lusb. — " when do you tliink I should see 
 liim — if — if — it is your opinion that I 
 shoicid— that it is proper for me to see 
 him ?" 
 
 And her breast heaved with convulsive 
 energy as she again threw a doubt over 
 the fulfilment of her destiny. At that 
 moment Mr. Gordon entered along with 
 her father. I was not prepared for this ; 
 but Mr. Gordon's passion had mastered 
 his judgment, and he could not wait the 
 issue of my interview. Rushing forward, 
 he fell on his knees before the couch. Isa- 
 bella lifted her head. It fell on the bosom 
 of her lover. Distinct sobs burst from 
 her bosom. The triumph of nature was 
 complete — their tears mixed, and heaving 
 respirations told eloquently the workings 
 of their hearts. Taking Mr. Warden 
 suddenly by the arm., I hurried him out of 
 the room. 
 
 In the afternoon, I called again, and 
 dined with the family. An entire change 
 had come over the mind of Isabella. The 
 struggle over, and nature having triumph- 
 ed, she was like one relieved from bondage 
 and captivity, and brought out to luxuri- 
 ate in the rays of the sun and the sweets 
 of natural liberty. Her brilliant fancy, 
 bursting from behind the cloud which had 
 shaded its splendor, exhibited all the gay 
 and shining lights of her extraordinary 
 genius. One by one, every subject start- 
 ed was taken up and rolled in the stream 
 
 I of effulgence that poured from her ima- 
 gi nation, and made to reflect the varied 
 hues, like precious stones turned in the 
 sunbeams, so as to bring all the angles in- 
 to luminous and never-ceasing changes cf 
 reflection. Capturing with case the minds 
 of all, she led us where she pleased — into 
 academic groves, poetic gardens, and Ely- 
 sian bowers ; and, infusing into us the 
 spirit by which she was herself animated, 
 transformed us for a time into new beings, 
 gifted with new powers and new suscepti- 
 bilities of enjoyment. Such are the effects 
 of genius. I gazed upon the lovely en- 
 chantress with admiration. Mr. Gordon's 
 eye was illuminated with delight ; and her 
 father's countenance, though occasionally 
 shaded with doubts as to the true import 
 or effect of such elevation of spii'its and 
 powers of fancy, exhibited the pleasure 
 and satisfaction of a fond parent. VVby 
 do I dwell on this scene ? Some time 
 afterwards, Mr. Gordon led Miss Warden 
 to the altar. They lived at the house of 
 Mr. Warden, I continued to be their fa- 
 mily surgeon, and often witnessed the 
 happiness of their union, which was never 
 disturbed by any attack of the disease, 
 which had produced so much terror to the 
 heiress of insanity. They never had any 
 children — a circumstance which reconciled 
 her more and more to the marriage condi- 
 tion, and did not diminish the happiness 
 of her husband. 
 
 • -•■♦^►•►- 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 513 
 
 MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE 
 
 " Lay her i' the earth ; 
 And from her pure and unpolluted flesh, 
 May violets spring !" 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 It is a lively spot, Grassyvale — " beau- 
 tiful exceedingly." But its beauty is of a 
 quiet, unimposing description ; the cba- 
 racteristic feature of the landscape which 
 would strike the eye of a spectator who 
 surveyed it from the highest neighboring 
 eminence, is simply — repose. There are 
 no mountains, properly so called, within a 
 circuit of many miles — none of those natu- 
 ral pyramids which, in various parts of our 
 beloved land of mountain and of flood, of 
 battle and of song, rise in majestic gran- 
 deur, like columns of adamant to support 
 the vault of heaven. The nearest are si- 
 tuated at such a distance that they appear 
 like clouds, and might readily be mistaken 
 for such, but for their death-like stillness, 
 and the everlasting monotony of their 
 outline. No waterfalls hurl their bolts of 
 liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave- 
 worn chasms, which had echoed to the 
 thunder of their fall since the birth of 
 time. There is no far-spreading forest — 
 no yawning ravine, with " ebon shades and 
 low-browed rocks" — no beetling cliflf or 
 precipice, " shagged " with brushwood, as 
 Milton hath it. There is nothing of the 
 grand, the sublime, the terrible, or the 
 magnificent — there is only quiet ; or, if 
 the terms do not sound dissonant to " ears 
 polite," modest, unassuming beauty, such 
 as a rainbow, were it perpetually present 
 in the zenith, might form a characteristic 
 and appropriate symbol of. Nature has 
 not here wrought her miracles of beauty 
 on a Titanic scale. What, then, is so at- 
 tractive about Grassyvale ? it will be ask- 
 ed. We are not sure but we may be as 
 much stultified with this question, as was 
 the child in Wordsworth's sweet little 
 VOL. a. ''0 
 
 poem, " We are seven " (which the 
 reader may turn up at leisure, when the 
 propriety of the comparison will be seen), 
 and may be forced, after an unsuccessful 
 attempt to justify ourselves for holding 
 such an opinion, to maintain, with the 
 same dogmatic obstinacy — it is beautiful. 
 But the length of our story compels us to 
 exclude a description of the landscape, 
 which we had prepared. 
 
 ^ 4^ tF Tt^ 
 
 The village of Grassyvale, which is situ- 
 ated on the margin of a small stream, 
 consists of about one hundred scattered 
 cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most 
 of them adorned in front with some flow- 
 ering shrub — wild brier, honeysuckle, or 
 the like — whilst a " kail-yard " in the rear 
 constitutes no inappropriate appendage. 
 There is one of those dwellings conspicu- 
 ous from the rest by its standing apart 
 from them, and by an additional air of 
 comfort and neatness which it wears, and 
 which seems to hallow it like a radiant at- 
 mosphere. It is literally covered with a 
 net-work of ivy, honey-suckle, and jasmine, 
 the deep green of whose unvarnished leaf 
 renders more conspicuous '^ the bright 
 profusion of its scattered stars." The 
 windows are literally darkened by a mul- 
 titude of roses, which seem clustering and 
 crowding together to gain an entrance, 
 and scatter their "perfumed sweets" 
 around the apartment. Near the cottage, 
 there is also a holly planted — that ever- 
 green tree which seems providentially 
 designed by nature to cheer the dreariness 
 of winter, and, when all is withered and 
 desolate around, to remain a perpetual 
 promise of spring. But we have more to 
 
514 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 do with this beautiful little dwelling than 
 merely to describe its exterior. 
 
 Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins 
 to swell, undulating into elevations of mild 
 acclivity, on the highest of which stands 
 the parish church, like the ark resting on 
 Ararat — faith's triumph, and mercy's 
 symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scat- 
 tered around indicate the cemetery where 
 ^' the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
 Amongst those memorials which are de- 
 signed to perpetuate the recollection of 
 virtue for a few generations — and which, 
 with their appropriate emblems and in- 
 scriptions, preach so eloquently to the 
 heart, and realize to the letter Shakspeare's 
 memorable words, "sermons in stones" — 
 there is one which always attracts atten- 
 tion. It is not a " storied urn, an animat- 
 ed bust" — one of those profusely deco- 
 rated marble hatchments with which 
 worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but 
 vain magnificence, over departed pride. 
 No ; it is only a small unadorned slab, of 
 rather dingy-colored freestone ; and the 
 inscription is simply — '' To the memory 
 of May Darling, who was removed from 
 this world to a better, at the early age of 
 nineteen. She was an affectionate daugh- 
 ter, a loving sister, and a sincere 
 Christian. 
 
 " Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er ; 
 She is not lost, but only gone before." 
 
 Ah ! there are few, few indeed, for many 
 miles round, who would pass that humble 
 grave without heaving a sigh or shedding 
 a tear for her who sleeps beneath — her 
 who was so beloved, so admired by every 
 one, as well as being the idol and pride of 
 her own family, and whose romantic and 
 untimely fate (cut off " i' the morn and 
 liquid dew of youth ") was the village talk 
 for many a day. 
 
 John Darling, the father of our heroine, 
 was, what is no great phenomenon among 
 the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, indus- 
 trious, honest man. In early life, he 
 espoused the daughter of an opulent 
 
 farmer, whose marriage portion enabled 
 him to commence life under very favorable 
 auspices. But, in spite of obedience to 
 the natural laws, the mildew of misfortune 
 will blight our dearest hopes, however 
 wisely our plans for the future may be 
 laid, and however assiduously and judi- 
 ciously they may be pursued. Untoward 
 circumstances, which it would unnecessa- 
 rily protract our narrative to relate, had 
 reduced him, at the period to which our 
 tale refers, to the condition of a field la- 
 borer. Death had, likewise, been busy 
 singling out victims from amongst those 
 who surrounded his humble, but cheerful 
 fireside ; and, of a large family, there only 
 remained three, and he was a widower 
 besides. May was the oldest ; and, ac- 
 cordingly, the superintendence of the 
 household devolved upon her. The de- 
 ceased parent was of a somewhat haughty 
 and reserved turn of mind, for the recol- 
 lection of former affluence never forsook 
 her ; and this circumstance kept her much 
 aloof from the less polished and sophisti- 
 cated matrons of the village, and also 
 rendered her a strict family disciplinarian. 
 She concentrated her mind almost entirely 
 upon the affairs of her own household ; 
 and her children were accordingly watched 
 with a more vigilant eye, and brought up 
 with more scrupulous care than was usual 
 with those around her. It was her pride, 
 and " let it be her praise," to see them 
 arrayed in more showy habiliments than 
 those worn by their associates ; and, to 
 accomplish this darlhig object, what seri- 
 ous transmutation did her finery of former 
 days undergo, as the mutilated robes de- 
 scended from child to child, turned upside 
 down, inside out, and otherwise suffering 
 a metamorphosis at every remove ! The 
 dress of May, in particular — her first-born 
 bud of bliss, the doted on of her bosom — 
 was always attended to with special care ; 
 nor was the cultivation of her mind in any 
 way overlooked. She very early inspired 
 her with a love of reading, which increased 
 with the development of her faculties, and 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 515 
 
 many a day survived her by whora the 
 passion had been awakened. 
 
 In person, May was slender ; but her 
 light, airy, sylph-like form, was eminently 
 handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth 
 of black contrasted admirably with a coun- 
 tenance which maybe designated as trans- 
 parent — it was nearly colorless ; and only 
 on occasions of unusual bodily exertion, 
 or when some mental emotion suffused the 
 cheek with a damask blush, would a tint 
 of rosy red fluctuate over her pure skin. 
 It can scarcely be called pale, however — 
 it had nothing about it of that death-in- 
 life hue which indicates the presence of 
 disease. 
 
 '* Oh, call it fair, not pale !" 
 
 The expression was at once amiable and 
 intellectual — mellowed or blended, how- 
 ever, with a pensiveness which is usually, 
 but most erroneously called melancholy. 
 Melancholy had nothing to do with a 
 ''mind at peace with all below — a heart, 
 whose love was innocent." The counte- 
 nance, in general, affords an index of the 
 mental character — it takes its " form and 
 pressure," as it were, from the predomi- 
 nant workings of that inward principle 
 which is the source of thought and feeling. 
 It is there that thous-ht and feelins;, those 
 subtle essences, are made visible to the 
 eye — it is there that mind may be seen. 
 The most casual observer could not fail to 
 perceive that the soul which spoke elo- 
 quently in the eye, " and sweetly lightened 
 o'er the face" of May Darling, was a 
 worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of 
 virtue ; for they are often combined — they 
 have a natural relation to one another ; 
 and, when they exist simultaneously in 
 one individual, a mind so constituted has 
 a capacity for enjoying the most exalted 
 pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. 
 May Darling was indeed imaginative and 
 sanguine in a very high degree ; and books 
 of a romantic or dramatic character were 
 mines of " untold wealth " to her. 
 
 " Many are poets who have never penned 
 Their inspirations." 
 
 And, although the name of this rural 
 beauty, this humble village-maiden, will 
 be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, 
 she enjoyed hours of intense poetical in- 
 spiration. In short, both in her mental 
 character, and in the style of her perso- 
 nal attractions, she rose far above her 
 companions of the village. Need it be 
 told that often, of a fine evening, she would 
 steal away from her gay, romping, laugh- 
 
 ing associates 
 
 , and, with a favorite author 
 
 in her hand, and wrapt in a vision of 
 " sweet coming fancies," follow the course 
 of the stream which intersected her native 
 vale, flowing along, pure and noiseless, 
 like the current of her own existence ? 
 
 The favorite haunt in which she loved 
 to spend her leisure hours, was a beauti- 
 ful dell, distant about half a mile from the 
 village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, 
 so undisturbed, that there — (but then all 
 these fine old rural deities, those idols 
 shrined for ages in Nature's own hallowed 
 Pantheon, have been expelled their tem- 
 ples, or broken by science — why should 
 this be ?) — there, if anywhere, the genius 
 of solitude might be supposed to have 
 fixed his abode. It was a broken piece of 
 ground, intersected by several irregular 
 banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile 
 grandeur (not on an Alpine scale, how- 
 ever), and there, clothed with tufts of the 
 feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. 
 The earth was carpeted with its usual co- 
 vering of emerald turf; and interwoven 
 with it, in beautiful irregularity, were 
 numerous wild flowers — the arum, with its 
 speckled leaves and lilac blossoms ; the 
 hyacinth, whose enameled blue looks so 
 charmingly in the light of the setting sun ; 
 and oxlips, cowslips, and the like — throw- 
 ing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays 
 presented by nature for some gentle crea- 
 ture, like May Darling, to gather up and 
 lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, 
 was permanently impregnated with the 
 perfume which they breathed out — the 
 everlasting incense of the flowers rising 
 from the altars of Nature to her God. 
 
516 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Such was the sanctuary in which May 
 gleaned from books the golden thoughts of \ 
 others, or held communion with her own ; 
 and well was it adapted for nursing a ro- 
 mantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone 
 to every tender feeling. 
 
 The personal attractions of this sweet 
 and lovely creature increased with her 
 years, and she became the reigning belle 
 of Grassyvale and all the country round. 
 It followed, as a matter of course, that her 
 admirers outnumbered her years ; and that 
 the possession of her affections was, with 
 many a rustic Adonis, a subject which 
 troubled the little kingdom of the soul, 
 like the Babylonish garment. At every 
 village fete — a wedding, a harvest home, 
 or other rural festival — hers was the step 
 most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand 
 most frequently solicited, hers the form 
 and face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled 
 the heart of the ardent admirer " too 
 much adoring." Amongst the other ac- 
 complishments of our heroine, skill in 
 music was not the least prominent. Not 
 that she excelled in those intricate graces 
 which are often had recourse to by vocal- 
 ists to conceal a bad voice, and atone for 
 want of feeling and expression ; but her 
 " wood-note wild " was eminently charac- 
 terized by the latter qualities of singing ; 
 and the effect which she produced, was, 
 accordingly, calculated to be lasting. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that 
 the flattering unction of adulation, at best 
 like the love of Kaled to Lara, ^' but half- 
 concealed," had any pernicious influence 
 over her mind. She was neither puffed 
 up with vain conceit, nor display of 
 haughty reserve and distance towards those 
 who numbered fewer worshippers than 
 herself; still humility of heart, which was 
 *' native there and to the manner born," 
 characterized her deportment — nor was 
 there any relaxation in the discharge of 
 the household duties which devolved upon 
 her ; and the comfort of her father, and 
 the proper care and culture of the younger 
 branches of the family, were as faithfully 
 
 attended to as if her deformity, instead of 
 her beauty, had been proverbial. She 
 folded the little flutterers under her wing, 
 like a mother bird ; and, if there was one 
 thing more than another that she took de- 
 light in, it was the training of their young 
 minds to the love and practice of virtue 
 and religion, the only fountains whence 
 happiness, pure and uncontaminated, can 
 be drawn in this life. 
 
 '• So passed their life — a clear united stream, 
 By care unruffled ; till, in evil hour" 
 
 But we anticipate. 
 
 It was on a fine summer morning that 
 May, with one of her little sisters, set out 
 to visit the annual fair of the county town. 
 Such an event naturally excites consider- 
 able interest over all the country round ; 
 and old and young, blind and cripple, 
 male and female, pour along the public 
 ways — not in " weary," but in light-hearted 
 " droves " — full of eagerness and cxnec- 
 tation, like the Jews to the pool of Bc- 
 thesda, when the angel was expected to 
 make his annual descent, and impart a 
 healing virtue to its waters ; for there, 
 there is to be found variety of amusement 
 for every mind — from the Katerfelto won- 
 der er, " wondering for his bread," down 
 to the more humble establishment of a 
 half-penny showman, with his " glorious 
 victory of Waterloo," his " golden beetle," 
 or " ashes from the burning mountains." 
 But, on the occasion to which we refer, 
 there was an exhibition in the shape of a 
 theatrical booth, which presented extraor- 
 dinary attractions for May Darling ; and, 
 accordingly, after deliberately balancing 
 the gratification which she anticipated, 
 with the expense which it would cost (her 
 exchequer was of course not very rich), 
 she at lensfth found herself comfortablv 
 seated near the front of the stage. The 
 tragedy of " George Barnwell " was going 
 off with prodigious eclat ; and the per- 
 formers had arrived at that scene where 
 the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, 
 when the insecure props that supported 
 the gallery began to indicate a disposition 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 517 
 
 to disencumber themselves of their burden, 
 and, at last, finally gave way. The con- 
 fusion which now ensued, not to mention 
 the shrieks and other vocal notes of terror 
 and dismay, it is needless to describe — 
 these have nothing to do with our tale. 
 Barnwell, instead of imbruing his hands in 
 innocent blood, even " in jest," became 
 the most active agent in rescuing his hap- 
 less audience from their perilous situation. 
 He was a tall, handsome young man, of a 
 very prepossessing exterior, and appeared 
 to great advantage in his showy stage ha- 
 biliments. The general rush was towards 
 the door, the most likely avenue of escape 
 which presented itself to the astonished 
 rustics ; but a few, amongst whom was our 
 heroine, with more collected judgment and 
 presence of mind, found a place of secu- 
 rity on the stage. May was slightly 
 bruised in her endeavors to shelter her 
 young charge ; and, although not much 
 injured, her forlorn yet interesting ap- 
 pearance drew the attention of the histri- 
 onic Samaritan, and he kindly conducted 
 her into the back settlements of the the- 
 atre. The affair was not of such a serious 
 nature as might have been anticipated. 
 A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two 
 of trifling contusions, made up the sum 
 total of the damage. A hat or two might 
 have changed owners in the confusion ; 
 but these are things beneath the dignity 
 of a tragedian to look after ; and, as soon 
 as matters were adjusted on the grand 
 theatre of commotion, he returned to the 
 object of his first solicitude. She was 
 seated on a stool, in what was dignified 
 with the sounding appellation of a green- 
 room — looking paler, and lovelier, and 
 more loveable than ever. He quieted her 
 I apprehensions with respect to the catas- 
 trophe ; for he was an adept in the art of 
 
 ■ imitation, and politely requested the honor 
 I of conducting her to her place of residence. 
 I It is not difficult to conceive what was the 
 
 first impression which the request made 
 i upon the mind of May Darling ; but the 
 
 ■ scruples of modest, virgin innocence, 
 
 yielded at last to the importunities of the 
 actor, and they left the scene of mirth 
 and confusion together. 
 
 On their journey homewards, the con- 
 versation naturally turned upon the 
 drama ; and many a fine passage, which 
 May admired, was recited to her with all 
 the eloquence and stage artifice which the 
 actor was master of. And he would speak 
 feelingly of " the gentle lady married to 
 the Moor ;" her love — the love of Desde- 
 mona — pure, exalted, all-enduring — such 
 as death alone could quench ; her wo and 
 her fate, so replete with all that can 
 agonize the human soul, and awaken its 
 profoundest sympathies ; — of Ophelia — 
 " the fair Ophelia," the young, the beau- 
 tiful, and the gentle — her devoted, child- 
 like affection, her mournful distraction, 
 and her untimely doom ; — of Miranda, the 
 island bride — the being of enchantment 
 — half earthly, half heavenly — around 
 whom the spirits of the air hovered, and 
 ministered unto as vassals ; — of Imogen, 
 the fair and faithful — the patient, long- 
 suffering, and finally fortunate Imogen ; — 
 of Cordelia — she of the seraph- spirit, pure 
 and peaceful — whose love for a father sur- 
 passed that of the Roman daughter ; — of 
 Perdita — " the prettiest low-born lass that 
 ever ran on the greensward " — the shep- 
 herdess and the princess ; — of Juliet — the 
 martyr of passion — she who drew poison 
 from earth's sweetest flower — love — and 
 died thereby ; by love's own flame, 
 " kindled she was and blasted." These, 
 and many other creations of fancy, which 
 omnipotent genius has rendered almost 
 real historical personages — not shadow 
 but substance — were the topics of dis- 
 course which were handled by our hero of 
 the buskin, until the cottage of John 
 Darling was reached. From the descrip- 
 tion which has been given of May's cha- 
 racter, it need be no matter of surprise 
 that the impression made upon her gentle 
 bosom was profound ; and, on taking leave 
 of her, a request, on the part of Mr. Hen- 
 ry Wilkinson (such was the tragedian's 
 
518 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 name), to bo permitted to vLsit her on 
 some future occasion, made under cover 
 of a pretext to inquire after the state of 
 her health, was acceded to. Again and 
 again Mr. Wilkinson visited the cottage, 
 and poured into the ear of the humble, 
 unsuspecting, and happy inmate, many a 
 story of love, and hope, and joy — such as 
 his knowledge of the drama, which was 
 great, supplied him with. 
 
 " These things to hear 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 
 But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 
 "Which ever as she could with haste dispatch 
 She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
 Devour up his discourse." 
 
 Substitute the name of May Darling 
 for that of Desdemona, and the descrip- 
 tion becomes perfect of our heroine's situ- 
 ation, whilst the result was similar : in a 
 short time, the happiness of our village 
 maiden was entirely at the disposal of Mr. 
 Wilkinson. Hitherto her heart had slept, 
 like some untroubled lake, reflecting only 
 heaven, and nature grand and beautiful 
 around ; but now its waters were darken- 
 ed and disturbed by one single image — 
 and that was her lover's. Her ears were 
 no longer open to the murmurs of her 
 native stream, or the gush of song from 
 the fairy- winged and fairy-plumaged birds, 
 whom she almost knew one from another : 
 she only heard the music of her lover's 
 voice. Her secluded dell was no longer 
 visited alone ; her walks were no longer 
 solitary, or if they were, it was only to 
 meet him whom her heart loved, and to 
 see if his speed '* kept pace with her 
 expectancy." Everything was beheld 
 through one all-hallowing atmosphere — 
 and that was love. It lay upon her soul 
 like the shadow on the sundial, and time 
 was measured by it. How, it will be ask- 
 ed, was all this looked upon by her father } 
 With no favorable eye — nay, with many 
 suspicious forebodings and prophetic fears. 
 
 It was about three months after the 
 catastrophe which took place in the 
 provincial theatre, that Mr. Wilkinson 
 made proposals of a union to May, which, 
 
 being accepted, the consent of her parent 
 was next applied for. The advances of 
 the actor were for a time checked by an 
 uncompromising refusal; but May's father 
 gradually became less peremptory, until 
 there remained only one objection, but 
 that was insurmountable — namely, the 
 profession of Mr. Wilkinson — one, in 
 general, very obnoxious to a Scottish 
 peasant. It was, however, finally obviated, 
 by the actor's promising to abandon it, 
 and become a teacher of elocution in the 
 
 town of H . The father's consent 
 
 was obtained at last, though with re- 
 luctance, and the day of their nuptials was 
 fixed. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening, that which 
 preceded the day when May Darling was 
 to give her hand to the man for whom her 
 heart cherished a love as deep, intense, 
 and concentrated, as ever was awakened 
 and nursed in woman's gentle bosom. 
 The sun — ^just sinking through those vast 
 masses of clouds which usually attend his 
 exit, and assume, as he descends, various 
 wild and fantastical shapes, and catch 
 every hue, from the intense purple to the 
 scarcely perceptible yellow — showered on 
 the face of nature a stream of rich but 
 mellowed radiance, which softened with- 
 out obliterating, the outlines of objects, 
 and produced that " clear obscure, so 
 softly dark, so darkly pure," which is so 
 favorable to indulgence in tender emo- 
 tions. 
 " Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts 
 the heart !"— 
 
 sweet hour, when reflection is deepest and 
 feeling most profound — when the mind, 
 abroad all day, busied with the concerns 
 of this work-a-day world, comes home to 
 itself, and broods, and sleeps, and dreams 
 golden dreams — sunny, hope-illumined 
 dreams ! — sweet hour, when the ties of 
 social being which the day had severed 
 are reunited, and around the household 
 hearth, the " old familiar faces " are as- 
 sembled ! — sweet hour, when the shades 
 of evening, gradually deepening, are suffi- 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 519 
 
 cient to conceal the blush which mio-ht 
 mantle beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly 
 pressed, as, in a voice half sighs, half 
 whispers, she confesses the secret of her 
 love ; and when, in the arms which gently 
 enfold her yielding form, she seems, in 
 the fine lano-uaf^c of Roarers, to become 
 less and less earthly, 
 
 " And fades at last into a spirit from heaven !" 
 
 'Twas at this enchanting hour that 
 Wilkinson and his betrothed set out on 
 one of those charming walks during which 
 they had so often exchanged vows of 
 mutual and eternal love. The road which 
 they at first took, was sufficiently retired 
 to admit of their conversing aloud with 
 unreserved confidence ; but, continuing 
 their journe}'-, unconscious where they 
 were o"oing, they found themselves at last 
 in the vicinity of the high road which 
 
 leads to the town of H . Turning to 
 
 strike down a narrow hedge-row path, a 
 moving spectacle presented itself to their 
 observation. Upon a grassy knoll lay a 
 female fast asleep, with a child at her 
 breast, vainly attempting to force its little 
 fingers within the folds of the handker- 
 chief which concealed the bosom of its 
 mother. May uttered a faint exclamation, 
 somewhat between pity and fear ; for she 
 was taken by surprise. But her lover's 
 astonishment was still greater than hers ; 
 for, after he had contemplated the care- 
 worn features of the wayfarer, he started, 
 and, had not the increasing gloom of 
 evening prevented any change of counte- 
 nance from being perceptible. May might 
 have seen his face turn ashy pale ; but she 
 felt the arm in which hers was fondly 
 locked, to tremble distinctly. 
 
 "This touches your feelings, Henry," 
 said May ; " but can we not, love, do 
 something to alleviate the sufferings of 
 this, no doubt, unfortunate female ? Had 
 I not better awake her, and conduct her 
 to my father's where refreshment and rest 
 can be procured .^" 
 
 " Nay, dearest love," said Wilkinson 
 
 — •' sleep is to the wretched tho greatest 
 .boon that can be bestowed : let us leave 
 her alone, nor deprive her of the only 
 comfort which, possibly, she is capable of 
 enjoying." 
 
 So saying, he hastily retired, bearing 
 May, somewhat reluctantly, homewards ; 
 for her sympathy was much excited, and 
 she would fain have carried her generous 
 purpose into effect ; but gave way to the 
 entreaties of her lover, who had some miles 
 to walk ere he could reach his place of 
 residence. After seeing May safely 
 beneath the domestic roof, Wilkinson 
 bade farewell for the night to his betroth- 
 ed bride, and took his departure, with the 
 intention, he said, of immediately return- 
 ing to H . He did not proceed di- 
 rectly home, however ; but, making a 
 retrograde movement, he fell back upon 
 the place where the fatigued traveller had 
 been seen. She was gone when he ar- 
 rived ; and whether the circumstance gave 
 him pleasure or the reverse, we have 
 never been able to ascertain ; but, at all 
 events, he now set out in good earnest for 
 
 H . What should have interested 
 
 Wilkinson so much in this apparently 
 wandering mendicant ? — Pacienza. 
 
 On the evening which we have describ- 
 ed, let the reader picture to himself two 
 aged crones, comfortably seated upon a 
 rough slab of wood, elevated two feet or 
 so above the ground, by a massive block 
 of granite which supported either end. 
 This together with the cottage wall against 
 which their backs reclined, might, even 
 with individuals more fastidious than its 
 present occupants, have appeared a luxu- 
 ry little inferior to a sofa, especially in 
 that bland and beautiful hour when day- 
 lio-ht dies along the hills, and our feelings, 
 partaking of the softness of the scene and 
 hour dispose us to be pleased, we ask not 
 why and care not wherefore. On either 
 hand was situated a door, over which hung 
 suspended a very homely signboard. 
 From one of these, the wayfarer might 
 learn that good entertainment for man 
 
520 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 and beast could be supplied within, by 
 Janet Baird, who, it appeared, was, by 
 special permission of government, per- 
 mitted to retail spirits, porter, ale, and 
 other items. Lest any mistake should 
 occur as to the nature of the invitation 
 (or, perhaps, it was a ruse to provoke the 
 alimentary faculties), there was a painting 
 of the interior, representing a table, which 
 seemed to groan under the weight of 
 bottles, glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, 
 cheese, and what not ; whilst two jolly 
 companions, with rubicund faces, where 
 an infinity of good nature predominated, 
 sat round it, each with a cup in hand, and 
 both evidently sublimed by their potations 
 far above this " dirty planet, the earth." 
 At the entrance to the apartment was 
 seen the landlady, who, with one hand, 
 pushed open the door ; whilst the other, 
 projecting forwards, supported a huge 
 tankard, charged with the favorite beve- 
 rage, which mantled or effloresced at the 
 
 "0^5 
 
 top, like a cauliflower. The neighboring 
 sio"n had fewer attractions for the weary 
 traveller or the droughty villager, throw- 
 ing out merely hints as to the condition of 
 the reader's linen, by intimating that 
 clothes might here undergo purification, 
 and be mangled by the hour or peace 
 (such was the orthography) by Nelly 
 Gray. 
 
 The two neighbors lived on terms of 
 the utmost harmony ; for there was no 
 rivalry of interests. Their callings were 
 antipodes to each other — one being de- 
 voted to the decoration and comfortable 
 appearance of the human exterior, whilst 
 the other took special cognizance of the 
 internal condition of the animal economy. 
 They, of C0UVS3, carried on a mutual traf- 
 fic ; but it was on the primitive principle 
 of barter — the weekly account for washing 
 and dressing which Janet owed, being duly 
 balanced by her accommodating Nelly with 
 a certain potent nostrum, which we shall 
 not name, buL merely describe as a sove- 
 reign remedy for aching bones and pains, 
 and other complaints of the stomach, to 
 
 which this petticoat Diogenes (for she 
 likewise practised in a tub ) was very sub- 
 ject, especially after washing a whole day, 
 or impelling her crazy creaking machine 
 for the same space of time. It was their 
 invariable practice to spend an hour or 
 two every evening in what is termed in 
 the vernacular a " twa-handed crack,'' 
 either seated out doors, or snugly im- 
 mured in Janet's back parlor — a small 
 dark room, encumbered with sundry arti- 
 cles of retail. The subject of their con- 
 versation, on the present occasion, will 
 immediately become apparent. 
 
 " They say he's gaun to learn folk elly- 
 keashun," said Janet, in reference to 
 May's lover. 
 
 " An' what's that, Janet ?" asked the 
 other. 
 
 " Ne'er a bit 0' me kens very weel," 
 rejoined Janet, '' but, I'm thinkin it's the 
 way the gentry speak, eghin an' owin, and 
 sichin and sabbin, an' makin yer voice 
 gang up an doun, like daft Jock playin on 
 the fife." 
 
 " Hech, sirs, that's an idle kind 0' way 
 0' making ane's bread," sighed Janet. 
 
 " It's naething else than begging. 
 He'd better pit a napping hammer in his 
 hand, an' tak the road-side for an honest 
 livelihood." 
 
 " 'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's 
 been on the road before, following anither 
 trade," said Janet. " I'm sair mistaen if 
 he's no a hempie ; an' we'll maybe hear 
 mair aboot him yet than some folks wad 
 like to ken 0'. I never liked your land- 
 loupers an' spoutin gentry a' my days. 
 They're nae better than tinklers, that 
 carry off whatever they lay their ban's on, 
 nae matter whether it's beast or body. It 
 cowes the gowan hoo sae sensible a man 
 as John Darling wad e'er hae looten his 
 dochter tak up wi' sic like clamjamfrey. 
 But he was aye owre easy wi' his family, 
 an' gied them owre muckle 0' their ain 
 wull frae the first. But the mother was 
 sair to blame in pittin sic daft-like notions 
 intil a bairn's head as to read playactorin' 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 521 
 
 books an' novels. Wae am I to say sae, 
 noo that slie's wliar the Lord wull." 
 
 " Is't true, Janet, that they're to be 
 coupled i' the kirk .?" asked Nelly. 
 " They say tho minister's taen an unco 
 likin to the lad ; an', to mak things look 
 as genteel as possible, he's offered the use 
 o' the kirk for marrying them in ; au's to 
 gie them a ploy forbye, after it's a' owre." 
 
 " Guid faith, it's a true saying — ' The 
 fat sow gets a' the draff,' " rejoined Janet. 
 " It wad be lano- or he did a turn like that 
 for ony puir body like oorsels. The birkie 
 doesna stand in need o' cash ; for he gies 
 saxpence to this ane, an' a shilling to the 
 tither ane for ganging errans. He micht 
 hae provided something for the waddin 
 folks doun at Michael Crummie's, whase 
 tred's no sae brisk noo, sin' that kick-up 
 wi' him an' the Mason Lodge folk, wha 
 swore he gied them up ill whusky — an' 
 that was, maybe, nae lee. He ne'er, since 
 ever I mind, keepit the real stuff, like that 
 o' mine. But see, Nelly, whatna puir 
 waebe2:one looking; creature's that comin«; 
 
 CO o 
 
 alang the road, scarcely able to trail ae 
 leg after anither ? — an' a bairn, too, help 
 us a' !" 
 
 The object which drew the attention of 
 the honest ale-wife, was, as the reader 
 may have already sagaciously conjectured, 
 the same forlorn being whom May Dar- 
 ling and her lover had accidentally en- 
 countered. With a slow and faltering 
 step, she approached the village dames, 
 and inquired of them how far it was from 
 the town of H . 
 
 '' Five miles guid," said Janet Baird, 
 and continued — " but ye'll no think o' 
 gaun there the nicht ; it's gettin dark, an' 
 ye've mair need o' a while's rest ; an', 
 maybe, ye wadna be the waur o' something 
 to support nature ; for, wae's me ! ye do 
 look thin an' hungert like ! Tak her in 
 by, Nelly, an' I" 11 fetch her some cordial, 
 as weel as a morsel to eat." 
 
 So saying, she proceeded to her shop, 
 for the purpose of making good her word, 
 whilst Nelly followed up that part of the 
 
 duty of relieving the stranger which de- 
 volved upon her, and conducted the 
 " wearied one" into the interior of her 
 humble domicile. 
 
 " Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, 
 na, I sudna wonder .?" said Nelly. 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger, whom we 
 shall now designate as Mrs. B. " Since 
 morning, I have prosecuted my journey 
 with all the speed which want and weari- 
 ness would permit of. But these were no- 
 thing, did I only know how it was to ter- 
 minate." 
 
 Meantime, Janet had returned, bearincr 
 in her apron an ample stock of provisions ; 
 and, having heard the latter part of Mrs. 
 B.'s reply to Nelly, her curiosity was not 
 a little excited to know somethino: of her 
 history. This she set about with the 
 characteristic pawlciness (there is no 
 purely English word sufficiently expres- 
 sive) of the Scotch — that style of speak- 
 ing which is half asking, half answering a 
 question ; and she was successful in her 
 endeavors. 
 
 " It'll be the guidman that ye 're 
 
 gaun to meet at H .^" said Janet. 
 
 " He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae 
 doot ; for there's little else dune there ; 
 an', indeed, that itsel has faun sair aff sin' 
 that dirt o' machinery was brought in to 
 tak the bread out o' the puir man's 
 mouth." 
 
 " Yes — no ; he is not in that line, nor 
 do I know, indeed, if he is to be found 
 there at all ; but — but — excuse me, kind 
 friend, for showing a little reserve touch- 
 ing one who" 
 
 Here, however, her feelings overcame 
 her ; and, turning round to gaze on the 
 helpless being that clung to her bosom, 
 tears from her suffused eyes began to find 
 a ready passage down her pale emaciated 
 cheek — a channel with which they appear- 
 ed to be fiimiliar. 
 
 " He never saw thee, my little Henry, 
 my sweet boy ! Methinks, that cherub 
 smile of innocence which lies upon thy 
 countenance, would be powerful enough to 
 
522 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 melt the icy feelings of his soul, and re- 
 call . Pardon me, kind friends," 
 
 she continued ; " but the name of husband 
 is associated in my mind with all that hu- 
 man nature can suffer, of unmitigated, 
 hopeless wretchedness. You see before 
 
 you the victim of . But you shall 
 
 hear all." 
 
 She then commenced her history, re- 
 counting every circumstance of a tale of 
 misery but too common. As it is, in some 
 measure, connected with that of May 
 Darling, we shall give a few of its leading 
 facts. 
 
 She was the daughter of a respectable 
 farmer in the north of England, and, being 
 an only child, received an accomplished 
 education ; and, from her engaging man- 
 ners, personal attractions, and skill in mu- 
 sic, she was much courted, even by those 
 who moved in the higher circles. At the 
 house of a neighboring clergyman, Mr. 
 
 G , she was a very frequent visitor ; 
 
 and her charms captivated the heart of 
 
 Dr. G , a young medical, gentleman, 
 
 and the nephew of the clergyman. On 
 her part, however, there was no attach- 
 ment, although the ardor with which Dr. 
 G pressed his suit might have capti- 
 vated a bosom less stubborn than hers. 
 But another idol was shrined and secretly 
 worshipped there. This was a Mr. Henry 
 
 Bolton, a fellow-student of Dr. G 's 
 
 — who, in calling at the house of Mr. 
 
 G- 
 
 -, to see his friend the Doctor, was 
 induced to spend a few days with him. 
 His stay was protracted to weeks, months 
 — in short till the farmer's daughter and 
 he, having come to an understanding with 
 respect to the all-important matter of 
 love, agreed to join hands for better for 
 worse. The marriage took place at a 
 neighboring town, where the couple re- 
 mained for several months, living in a 
 state of great privacy, for no one was in 
 the secret of their union, not even the 
 lady's father. The finances of Mr. Bolton 
 became exhausted ; and a letter from his 
 father having shut out all hope of succor 
 
 from that quarter, he was thrown into a 
 state of extreme dejection. His temper 
 soured, and harshness towards his wife 
 soon followed ; for an application on her 
 part to her father, to whom she was com- 
 pelled by necessity to reveal her situation, 
 met with a reception similar to the other. 
 One day, he dressed himself with more 
 than usual care, packed up in a small 
 parcel the principal part of his body 
 clothes, and having told his wife that he 
 meant to go as far as , naming a con- 
 siderable town, which was situated at some 
 miles distance, parted from her, like Ajut 
 in " The Rambler," never to return. 
 The sun arose and set, and arose again 
 and again, and week after week, but still 
 he came not ; nor was she ever able to 
 obtain the faintest trace of him. Her 
 health began to droop, and, in the depth 
 of her humiliation and misery, like the 
 prodigal of old, she was compelled to seek 
 for shelter under the paternal roof. Her 
 father received her even with kindness ; 
 for time, the softener of affliction, the 
 soother of wrath, had not passed over his 
 head without exercising its due influence 
 upon his feelings. Here she gave birth 
 to a child, the baby which now lay at her 
 breast. Time passed away, and still no 
 intelligence of her runaway husband reach- 
 ed her, till, " About a week back," she 
 said, ^^ communication was made me by 
 letter, that, if I would repair to the town 
 
 of H , I would hear something of my 
 
 lost husband. Without the knowledge of 
 my father, I have undertaken the journey ; 
 and God alone knows whether the infor- 
 mation, so mysteriously conveyed to me, 
 be true or false — whether my hopes will 
 be disappointed or realized. A few hours, 
 however, will be sufficient to set my mind 
 at rest. I have wearied you, I fear ; but 
 my present wretched appearance required 
 some explanation on my part — for, oh, it 
 is difficult to lie under the suspicion of 
 being a vagrant or vagabond, as heaven 
 knows I am neither." And, clasping her 
 hands, and raising her eyes, she remained 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 523 
 
 for a few minutes in that reverential but 
 death-like attitude which is assumed when 
 a human soul prays in agony. 
 
 Her painful narrative had its due influ- 
 ence upon the minds of those to whom it 
 was addressed ; and, although both ad- 
 mitted the propriety of proceeding to the 
 town of H , yet they earnestly exhort- 
 ed her to remain with them for a night ; 
 and to this proposal she acceded. After 
 
 breakfast next morning, Mrs. B (who 
 
 must now be looked upon as one of the 
 principal of our dramatis personce) set 
 
 out for the town of H . What the 
 
 nature of her reflections were, as she drew 
 near the termination of her journey, may 
 be readily conceived ; but of their intensity 
 no idea can be formed by any one except 
 by the broken-hearted female who has 
 passed through the same fiery ordeal of 
 desertion and despair. She had arrived 
 within a short distance of the town, when 
 a chaise, driving rapidly down the princi- 
 pal entrance to it, attracted her attention. 
 It approached, and from the favors which 
 profusely adorned the driver, his team, 
 and his vehicle, it was evident that some 
 happy pair were destined soon to become 
 its occupants. The blinds were all drawn 
 up ; but, as the chaise passed her, one 
 of them was partially let down, and she 
 heard some one from within instruct the 
 driver to proceed to the manse by a road 
 more retired than that usually taken. 
 There was something in the tone of the 
 voice (though indistinctly heard from the 
 rattling of the wheels) which startled Mrs. 
 
 B from a reverie in which she had been 
 
 indulging, and made every fibre of her 
 body to thrill, as if an electric discharge 
 had shot through it. In mute astonish- 
 ment, not unmingled with thick coming 
 fancies, horrible forebodings, which, with- 
 out assuming any definite form, were pro- 
 phetic of wo, she fixed her eyes upon the 
 retiring vehicle, and, rooted to the spot 
 where she stood, motionless as a Niobe of 
 stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs 
 ached. " Can it be?"' she at last ex- 
 
 claimed, with wild emotion 
 
 " can it be ? 
 — No — no — 'tis but fancy ; yet the place ! 
 — gracious powers !" Her eyes continued 
 to follow the retiring wheels, fixed upon 
 them she knew not by what mysterious 
 power ; and long she might have remained 
 in this position, had not some person from 
 behind softly addressed her. She turned 
 round, and her eyes fell upon her former 
 
 suitor, Dr. G . Let her astonishment 
 
 be imagined — we will not attempt to give 
 words to her feelings. 
 
 " It is to you, then," she said, after re- 
 covering from her surprise — " it is to you, 
 Dr. G- 
 
 -, that I am indebted for infor- 
 mation regarding my lost husband." 
 
 " It is," he replied ; " but not a mo- 
 ment is to be lost. Things are in a worse 
 condition than they were when I dispatch- 
 ed my letter to you. But let us proceed 
 instantly to Grassyvale. On the way I 
 will inform you of all that has come to 
 my knowledge regarding that monster — it 
 were a profanation of language to call him 
 husband.-" So saying, they commenced 
 their journey, which we shall leave them 
 to prosecute whilst we bring up some 
 parts of our narrative which have been ne- 
 cessarily left in the rear. 
 
 We need hardly say that the morning 
 of her marriage was an anxious and a 
 busy one to May Darling. It is true that 
 she had plenty of assistance afforded her 
 by the village matrons, and by a few 
 youthful associates, whom she had singled 
 out as especial favorites, from amongst 
 many who were regarded by her with affec- 
 tion. But still a fastidiousness of taste 
 always seizes people on those occasions 
 when they are desirous of appearing to 
 the best advantage. Besides, when there 
 are a number of lady's maids, all busily 
 engaged in decorating a single individual, 
 a difference of opinion relative to the va- 
 rious items of dress always takes place, 
 and occasions much delay. One of them 
 is clear that such and such a color of rib- 
 bon will best suit the complexion of the 
 wearer ; another holds out strongly for 
 
524 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 an opposite hue, and a third silences them 
 both bj asserting that neither answer the 
 color of the bonnet. What sort of flowers 
 would most fittingly ornament the hair, 
 was also a subject of protracted debate ; 
 and half an hour Avas wasted in determin- 
 ing whether the ribbon which was to circle 
 her waist like a zone, should hang down 
 or not. Matters, however, were at last 
 adjusted — the bride was arrayed, the hour 
 of twelve was struck by a small wooden 
 clock which ticked behind the door ; and 
 with the hour there arrived at the cottage 
 a sort of rude palanquin, fashioned of 
 birch-tree boughs, which intertwisted 
 with each other, and were interwoven with 
 branches of flowering shrubs ; and upon 
 this some of the kindest and blithest- 
 hearted of the villagers had agreed to bear 
 May to the kirk. Some modest scruples 
 required to be overcome, before she could 
 be induced to avail herself of this mode of 
 conveyance ; and, after being seated, with 
 the bridesmaid walking on one side, and 
 John Darling on the other, the cavalcade 
 began to move. Many hearty good wishes 
 for the happiness of the bride from the 
 elder people, and many joyous shouts from 
 the younger part of the villagers, greeted 
 the ears of the marriage party ; whilst a 
 pretty long train, which drew itself out in 
 the rear, sent up its rejoicings on the wind 
 from a distance. But one stej) must bring 
 us to the altar of Hymen. Side by side 
 stood the bridegroom and the bride ; and 
 a more interesting, handsome, and appa- 
 rently well-matched pair, never were seen 
 in the same situation, as we are informed 
 by the clergyman who officiated on the 
 occasion. The ceremony proceeded with 
 due formality — one moment more would 
 liave joined their hands, when a person 
 who had just entered the church called to 
 the clergyman to stay the nuptials ; and, 
 at the same moment, a shriek from a fe- 
 male, who had entered alonj:^ with him, rose 
 80 wild, thrilling and distracted, that every 
 i)osoni shook beneath its o-litterino- attire. 
 " Base, inhuman miscreant !" shouted 
 
 Dr. G , addressing himself to Wilkin- 
 son (which name must now be supplanted 
 by his real one, Bolton), at the same time 
 rushing forward to seize the bridegroom. 
 
 He, however, had, ere this, dropped the 
 hand of May Darling — that hand which, 
 till now, like Desdcmona's, had " felt no 
 age, nor known no sorrow" — and, un- 
 sheathing a dagger which was concealed 
 about his person (doubtless one of his 
 theatrical weapons), he threatened to make 
 a ghost of any one who disputed his re- 
 treat from the church. His menacing 
 attitude and wild gesticulations threatened 
 
 every beholder, and even Dr. G gave 
 
 way, allowing him unmolested to quit the 
 sacred place which he was about to pro- 
 fane, and possibly might have stained 
 with blood. Only one attempted to ar- 
 rest him, and, for a short time, succeeded. 
 It was his wife — she "who the night pre- 
 viously had kindled up in his soul the fires 
 of conscience, as she lay asleep, unshel- 
 tered save by heaven's blue canopy, and 
 apparently an abandoned outcast. 
 
 " Henry," she said, holding up her child, 
 and stretching forth her arms — " Henry, 
 look on this dear pledge of our affection, 
 the child of love, though born in bitterness 
 and tears, the offspring of your choice — 
 look on him, Henry, and let the voice of 
 conscience in your breast, which must be 
 heard now or hereafter, plead in his be- 
 half. The helpless darling innocent — of 
 what crime has he been guilty, that his 
 natural protector should cast him fqrth to 
 meet the buffetings of fate, without a 
 shield — that he should be launched upon 
 the sea of life without an oar .'' If not for 
 my sake, at least for the sake of little 
 Henry — for he bears your name — restore 
 us both to honor and society, by returning 
 to the path of duty. The arms that have 
 so often embraced you, will again 
 encircle the neck to which they have 
 clung so often and so fondly. O Henry, 
 Henry ! reflect for an instant on my des- 
 titute outcast condition — without you, I 
 am a weed cast from the rock, to be driven 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 525 
 
 whithersoever the storm sets wildest. 
 Think what my sufferings have been and 
 must be ! — God alone can estimate them. 
 Henry, hear me. Stay but one instant — 
 Henry, Henry !" And, taking her child 
 in one arm, she stretched out the other to 
 detain him ; but the heartless villain shook 
 her rudely from him, and darted from the 
 church. 
 
 What were May Darling's feelings dur- 
 inar this heart-rendin"; scene ? She was not 
 a spectator of it. The moment that the 
 dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, she 
 sank into the arms of her father, dead to 
 consciousness and time. By the same 
 conveyance which had brought her in 
 triumph to the church, covered with the 
 ensignia of happiness, and palpitating with 
 rapture almost too intense for the human 
 soul to enjoy for any length of time with- 
 out experiencing pain and a revolution of 
 feeling — by that same conveyance, not an 
 hour after, she was borne to her father's 
 cottage, a wretched but a gentle maniac. 
 
 Days, weeks, months, passed away, and 
 she remained the same listless, mild, and 
 inoffensive creature — a baby-woman, a 
 human being ripe in years, and an infant in 
 thought, feeling, and everything mental. 
 'Tis painful to contemplate the situation 
 of an individual overwhelmed by such a 
 calamity under any circumstances ; but 
 under the present, how terrible indeed ! 
 To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in 
 bridal robes, and with all her hopes 
 blooming around her — how does it humble 
 human pride, set at nought all calculations 
 of human happiness, and assign narrow 
 limits to human hope ! And yet there was 
 mercy in the dispensation. Better un- 
 conscious almost of existence itself, than 
 alive to all the horrors of a doom like 
 that of Ptiay Darling. Better the vacant 
 stare, and the look of silent indifference 
 on all beneath the sun, than the wild gesti- 
 culations of violent grief, the shriek of wo, 
 or the agony of despair, for the alleviation 
 of which " hope never comes that comes to 
 all." 
 
 Every means were had recourse to for 
 rousing her from the dismal trance into 
 which she had fallen ; to dispel from her 
 thoughts the gloomy, the dead images by 
 which they were haunted ; but in vain. 
 Sometimes she would sit amongst her gay 
 companions ; and, whilst they laughed, 
 chatted, and sung, as informer happy days, 
 a faint smile would re-kindle about her lips, 
 so rosy once, so wan and withered now, 
 and for a moment playing like a mental 
 coruscation, would suddenly expire, and 
 then she would droop again into the gloom 
 of moody madness, and weep amidst all 
 the gaiety that surrounded her — weep 
 even like a child. If spoken to, she made 
 no reply ; but, lifting up her dark stream- 
 ing eyes, sparkling through the humid 
 medium in which they were suffused, like 
 a star in motionless water, she would sing 
 snatches of old songs about disappointed 
 love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts. 
 And the melancholy tones of her voice would 
 sadden all around her, as if some powerful 
 spell had suddenly passed over their minds 
 like a cold wind, and frozen up the fount 
 of joyous feeling ; and they would weep, 
 too — weep along with her ; for she was so 
 beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy 
 once, and so wo-begone and wretched now. 
 Then would the gentle maniac start up on 
 a sudden, as if some one had hastily sum- 
 moned her, and, rushing towards home, 
 would mutter, in a quick tone of voice — 
 " I am coming — I am coming ! I knew we 
 would be in time ! — I knew we would be 
 
 in time ! He is there ! — he — he ! 
 
 Who ?" She was silent now. Many an 
 eye was filled with tsars as she passed 
 through the straggling village of Grassy- 
 vale. 
 
 Winter had passed away — the vernal 
 eruption of spring had been matured into 
 the bloom, and the promise which spring 
 gives of autumn, when May Darling, one 
 evening, wandered forth from her father's 
 cottage, attended only by a little sister. 
 Striking into that beautiful and unfrequent- 
 ed path where she had last walked with 
 
526 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 liim who, on the following day, was to ] 
 have bocome her husband, she had arrived ' 
 at the very spot where lay asleep, on the 
 grassy bank, by the hedge-side, the wife of 
 Bolton. A train of thought seemed sud- 
 denly to rush through her mind ; for she 
 sat, or rather dropped gently down. 
 'Twas the recollection of former events 
 which had loegun to be reanimated within 
 her ; and, though faint, it was sufficient 
 to cause a temporary suspension of mus- 
 cular energy : her sight became dim, only 
 vague images being presented to the eye ; 
 and she might probably have fallen back- 
 wards, had not a person sprung through 
 the hedge, and putting his arms around 
 her slender form, maintained her in an 
 erect position. The individual who had 
 thus so opportunely come to her assistance 
 was closely wrapped up in a great- coat, 
 although the warmth of the weather ren- 
 dered such a covering scarcely necessary. 
 The upper part of his countenance was 
 concealed by a slouched hat drawn pretty 
 far down ; but from what of it was visible, it 
 was plain that care, remorse, and dissipa- 
 tion had gone far to modify its natural ex- 
 pression. 
 
 May gradually revived from her partial 
 swoon ; and the stranger, uncovering his 
 head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid 
 features which began to assume the hue of 
 life and the expression of conscious being, 
 he said, in alow, trembling voice — 
 
 " May Darling, hear me — do not curse 
 me — I am miserable enouo;li without the 
 malison of her whom" But his feel- 
 ings, for a moment, choked his utterance. 
 *' Through a thousand dangers and diffi- 
 culties have I sought this interview, only 
 that I might obtain 3^our forgiveness, 
 and acceptance of this small gift." Here 
 he flung a purse down by her side. " Say 
 you forgive me, May— breathe but the 
 word, and, in a few days, an ocean shall 
 roll between us." 
 
 But he spoke to ears which heard not. 
 The moment that May recognised Bolton, 
 reason was restored, but animation fled, 
 
 and she sank dead for a time in his arms. 
 He was about to take measures for her re- 
 storation, when the rapid trampling of 
 horses' hoofs drew his attention in another 
 direction ; and looking over the hedge-row, 
 he perceived two horsemen, at a very little 
 distance, advancing towards the village. 
 He seemed to be aware of their errand 
 and the cause of their speed ; for, no 
 sooner had he cast his eye on them, than 
 his head instinctively sunk down behind 
 the hedge. But his precaution was too 
 late. He had been seen; and, that night, 
 he was led, a fettered man, to the gaol of 
 H — 
 
 -, charged with highway robbery. 
 We may as well conclude his history, as 
 well as that of the other individuals who 
 have been interwoven with our tale, before 
 returning to May Darling. 
 
 Mr. Henry Bolton was found guilty of 
 the crime with which he was charged, and 
 condemned to perish on the scaffold, al- 
 though it was only his first offence ; and, to 
 do him justice, ho had commited the crime 
 for the purpose of having it in his power, 
 in some measure, to requite May Darling 
 for the injury which she had received at 
 his hands. How wonderful are the ways 
 of Providence in punishing the guilty ! 
 Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtu- 
 ous, Bolton commits a capital crime, and 
 the woman whom he had wronged becomes, 
 unconsciously to herself, the ultimate cause 
 of his punishment ! However, by power- 
 ful intercession on the part of his friends, 
 the sentence was commuted to transporta- 
 tion for life. But it was destined that he 
 should end his days miserably. ^' Whoso 
 sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his 
 blood be shed." Bolton was virtually a 
 murderer, as we shall see ; and the curse 
 could not be eluded by the decision of any 
 earthly tribunal, ""Twas vain to attempt 
 to fly from it. The vengeance of Heaven 
 would have pursued him through all the 
 regions of space ; and, screened by the 
 closest envelope of darkne-ss and disguise, 
 would have struck its victim down. In a 
 skirmish with the natives of the place to 
 
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE. 
 
 527 
 
 wliich he had been transported, he was 
 taken prisoner, and by them put to a 
 cruel and lincrerm.qr death. 
 
 O O 
 
 After the painful interview with her hus- 
 band in the church of Grassyvale, Mrs. 
 Bolton returned to her father, secluding 
 herself from the world, and devoting her 
 time to household duties and the educa- 
 tion of her sen. Rumors of the death 
 of her husband penetrated at last to the 
 remote part of the country where she re- 
 sided, and, on its being officially authenti- 
 cated. Dr. G , who had commenced 
 
 practice in a neighboring town, became a 
 frequent visitor at the farm-house. His 
 former courtship was renewed ; and, when 
 the days of mourning were over, and time 
 had done much to alleviate grief, to re- 
 store the faded charms of Mrs. Bolton, and 
 to throw the events of the past into dim- 
 ness and distance, they were united; and 
 are still, according to the last accounts, 
 living happily together, surrounded by a 
 family of thriving children. Nelly Gray 
 and Janet Baird still pursue their respec- 
 tive callings in Grassyvale ; the latter 
 never failing, on every passible occasion, 
 to boast of her sagacity in detecting the 
 real character of Mr. Henry Wilkinson, 
 ulias Bolton. But let us return to the 
 suffering May Darling. 
 
 She was borne to her eottao-e home in- 
 sensible, in which state she remained all 
 that night, and next day revived only to 
 know that she was dying. Yes — the arrow 
 that had pierced her was poisoned ; but 
 the venom, though fatal, worked slow. 
 Gold is refined by fire, and the more in- 
 tense the heat applied, the purer will the 
 metal become. So it is with the human 
 soul. It is made perfect through suffer- 
 ing ; and the more it is destined to en- 
 dure, the fitter will it become for takins; a 
 part with the choirs of saints and angels, 
 when it shall have thrown aside the gar- 
 ments of mortality and mounted on high, 
 like the unshadowed moon, through parted 
 <;louds. But May was happy notwith- 
 ■standing. In all her looks and movements 
 
 were disclosed the peace of mind which 
 passeth understanding. It was diffused, 
 like light from heaven, over her counte- 
 nance ; it was heard, like a rich chord 
 of music, in the tones of her voice ; her 
 every word and action betrayed its pre- 
 sence and all-prevailing power. Her 
 Bible, although always a favorite study, 
 became now her sole one ; and by its all- 
 hallowing influence, her mind, looking 
 down with calm complacency on all terres- 
 trial things, had an early foretaste of im- 
 mortality, in many a delightful contem- 
 plation of that abode and that felicity 
 which shall reward the just. 
 
 " It was a delightful evening, about the 
 middle of autumn," says the worthy 
 clergyman to whom we have been indebt- 
 ed for many of the facts of the foregoing 
 narrative, " that I was hastily summoned, 
 by John Darling, to visit his daughter, 
 who, he believed, was dying. I lost no 
 time in proceeding to his cottage, and 
 found that his conjecture was but too true. 
 In an easy chair, placed at an open win- 
 dow which faced the west, reclined the 
 victim of a broken heart. On her pale 
 cheek death had impressed his seal, though 
 there the deceitfal rose tint fluctuated, 
 which was not so in her days of health 
 and hope. Her words, when she spoke, 
 and that was seldom, seemed to come forth 
 without her breath ; and the lightest down 
 that ever was wafted thoug-h summer's air 
 might have slept unfluttered on her lips. 
 I kneeled down and prayed that the gen- 
 tle spirit which was about to be released 
 from its mortal bonds, might receive a 
 welcome to the realms of life and light. 
 She understood distinctly that she was 
 dying ; and, in token that her mind was at 
 perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I 
 had finished — ' Yes ! oh ! yes ! — Heaven ! 
 
 he !' The words died unfinished on her 
 
 tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky. 
 " ' Peace to her broken heart and virgin grave 1' 
 *' In what a noble, what a truly grand 
 point of view does this instance of trium- 
 phant faith place the glorious religion m 
 
528 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 which we believe ! In what told relief does 
 its value to our fallen race appear ! What 
 a luminous light does it shed in life's last 
 agonies, opening up a radiant vista through 
 the clouds and darkness which settle on 
 the soul, like the shadows of approaching 
 death ! There is nothing better qualified 
 to develop the intellectual faculties, en- 
 large the understanding, and strengthen 
 and foster the latent virtues of the heart, 
 than the love and the study of literature. 
 I am no advocate for the exclusive study 
 of Scripture — nay, I am not sure if such 
 restricted reading would not lead to nar- 
 rowness of mind and gloomy unconcern 
 about the aflfairs of life, and the duties con- 
 nected with it, if not also to selfish morose- 
 ness and illiberal bigotry — a want of com- 
 munity of feeling and sympathy with hu- 
 man nature in general. But what would 
 literature alom have done for May Dar- 
 lino".? Would the recollection of Shak- 
 speare's finest bursts of inspiration, where 
 the dramatist seems struggling with nature 
 which shall be the greatest, have buoyed 
 her spirit up under the load which oppress- 
 ed it, or given but one, only one faint 
 assurance of immortality ? Alas f they 
 could only have reminded her of what it 
 would have been far better to forget for 
 ever, to bury in everlasting oblivion be- 
 neath the waves of Lethe. How finely 
 does the Bard of Hope write, in reference 
 to the anticipation of eternal felicity in the 
 hour of dissolution ! 
 
 " ' Vi^hat though each spark of earth-born rapture fly ? — 
 The quivering lip. pale cheek, and closing eye ? 
 Bright to the soul they seraph hands couvey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day I ' 
 
 " Or what could philosophy have done for 
 her ? Science has only reference to this 
 life — its eagle eye has never caught a ray 
 reflected from that which is to come. 
 
 Matter may be tortured by methods, varied 
 with infinite ingenuity ; but every secret 
 thus disclosed only relates to matter — there 
 is nothing of spirit brought to light in all 
 the experiments of the chemist, in all the 
 observations of the astronomer, in all the 
 gropings and searching investigations of 
 the geologist ; for, though he reveals past 
 time — ay, almost a past eternity — the 
 strata of the earth with their world of 
 organic wonders which record the tran- 
 spired history of our planet in imperishable 
 hieroglyphics, tell nothing of the future. 
 The ocean, with its buried wrecks and its 
 countless treasures ; the mountain over 
 which the mighty deep once rolled its un- 
 dulating expanse, and there deposited its 
 myriads of living creatures ; the desert, 
 which heaps its ocean of sand over entomb- 
 ed cities, once the glory of the earth 
 
 but why should we go on t — everything 
 speaks of the past, but not a whisper comes 
 from creation's breast of what is to come. 
 The Bible alone discloses the mighty 
 secret. May all, therefore, find it what it 
 proved to be to May Darling — light, when 
 all is dark — hope, when all is despair — 
 pleasure in pain — life in death." 
 
 It was upon her that a nameless rustic 
 bard, who had been an admirer, composed 
 the following lines : 
 
 " she faded like a flower 
 
 That wastes by slow decay ; 
 Not snatched in an untimely hour, 
 
 But withered day by day. 
 'Twas sad to see those charms. 
 
 So heavenly once, decayed ; 
 And. oh I to blight thee in our arms 
 
 In bridal robes arrayed I 
 
 " But heaven commenced with thee 
 
 "Whilst yet below the sun; 
 And. ere the mortal ceased to be, 
 
 The seraph hai begun, 
 Calm. then, on Nature's breast 
 
 In dreamless sleep, sleep on, 
 Till angel voices break thy rest 
 
 In music like thine own I " 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 529 
 
 THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 " To Let, the Mansion-House of Dry- 
 field. This is a small, genteel, self-con- 
 tained house, beautifully situated on the 
 banks of the Clyde, with large garden, and 
 seven acres of fine arable land attached. 
 Rent modei'ate. Preniises will be shown, 
 and other particulars given, by Mr. Pent- 
 land, farmer, Minnigrain, near Dryfield, 
 who is also empowered to transact all mat- 
 ters relative to the letting of the house and 
 grounds." 
 
 Such, good reader, was an advertisement 
 that appeared in the C aledoiiian Mercury 
 some six-and twenty years ago. Well, 
 but what on earth has an advertisement to 
 do with the Border Talf^s ^ Patience, 
 kind friend — patience ; and, as a certain 
 humorous song— whose title we have for- 
 gotten — says, " You shall hear." This 
 advertisement, commonplace as it may 
 seem, possessed some interest for me at 
 the time it appeared ; for, at that very 
 moment, I was commissioned, by a friend 
 then resident in Jamaica, but who was 
 contemplating an immediate return to his 
 native country, to look out for exactly 
 such a phice as that described in the an- 
 nouncement above quoted. 
 
 Having some recollection of the place 
 myself, which I had casually seen several 
 years before, as I passed on the top of the 
 mail, I felt convinced that it was precise- 
 ly such a residence as my friend desired. 
 Under this impression, I determined on 
 payimr Dryfield a visit, and making a per- 
 sonal survey of the premises. Conform 
 thereto, the following morning found me 
 on the top of the mail. In six hours af- 
 terwards, I was at Minnigrain, and in the 
 presence of its worthy occupant, Mr. 
 Pcntland. lie was a decent, substantial- 
 looking farmer — plain and unsophisticated 
 in his manners, intelligent, and shrewd, 
 
 VOL. 11. ''1 
 
 with a spice of humor about him which he 
 seemed to have difficulty in controlling. 
 
 Having mentioned to Mr. Pentland the 
 purpose of my visit, and my wish to take a 
 look of Dryfield and its premises, he in- 
 stantly accompanied me thither — having 
 previously provided himself with a couple 
 of keys ; one to procure us access to the 
 garden, through which "it was necessary to 
 pass to reach the house ; the other to ad- 
 mit us to the house itself. 
 
 Our way lay through a romantic wood, 
 that grew on a steep bank overhanging the 
 Clyde, and which was traversed by various 
 winding paths. Having taken one of these 
 we soon threaded the little forest ; and, 
 emerging at its western side, found our- 
 selves on a green lawn, at the further end of 
 which stood the mansion-house of Drifi"el, 
 as it was more shortly pronounced by the 
 natives. It was a compact and comfort- 
 able-looking house, but had evidently been 
 long untenanted. Everything around it 
 was running to waste. The honeysuckle, 
 with which its walls had been clothed, had 
 fallen from its fastenings, and was idly 
 sweeping the footpath below ; the flower- 
 plats in front were overrun with weeds ; 
 the garden was uncropped ; and shrubs, 
 bushes, and trees, were revelling in an un- 
 profitable luxuriance. Everything, in 
 short, bespoke neglect, and the absence 
 of a presiding care and taste. 
 
 " The house does not seem to have been 
 tenanted for a long time, Mr. Pentland," 
 said I, as we walked towards the house. 
 
 " Deed, it's a gey while since there was 
 what ye may ca' a reglar tenant in't," re- 
 plied my companion. "We hae had 
 families from time to time, for a month or 
 twa in the summer season, but nae reglar 
 tenant since Mr. Darsay himsel left, and 
 that's gaun noo in ten years since." 
 
530 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Js Mr. Darsy dead r" 
 
 " Ou no. He gaed abroad for the bene- 
 fit o' his health ; him and his man Ram- 
 say. He was to hae been back in six 
 months, but he has never returned yet. 
 But I'm sure the blessin o' the poor and 
 the needcessitous '11 follow the worthy 
 man wherever he goes." 
 
 " He was a benevolent man, was he ?" 
 
 *' That he was, sir. Just ane o' the 
 best men breathin. Some folk thocht 
 him a wee whimsical now and then ; but 
 his heart was in the richt place. He had 
 just five hunner a-year ; and I'm sure he 
 gied awa three o't in charity, if he gied a 
 saxpence." 
 
 '' Any family .^" 
 
 " No. He never was married. It's 
 said that he was ance crossed in love in 
 his younger days ; but, whether this be 
 sae or no, I dinna ken. There was nae- 
 body lived here wi' him but an auld 
 maiden sister, his man Ramsay, and twa 
 servant lasses. His sister's dead ; and it's 
 thocht it was partly her death that sent 
 him awa frae Dryfield ; for, they war just 
 extraordinar attached to ane anither. Just 
 to show you, sir, how worthy a man he 
 is,'' continued Mr. Pentland, " the rent 
 o' this property is, by his orders, to be 
 banded owre to the minister, for the use 
 o' the poor o' the parish." 
 
 Just as the conversation had reached 
 this point, we reached the door of the house. 
 Mr. Pentland inserted the key, but found 
 some difficulty in turning the lock, from its 
 having become stifi'and rusted through dis- 
 use. While he was engaged in alternately 
 coaxing and forcing the obstinate bolt, my 
 attention was attracted by an inscription on 
 the stone of the door-way. This inscription 
 was in part concealed by some straggling 
 branches of honeysuckle which had broken 
 loose from their fasteniusrs, and were hanjx- 
 ing over it. 
 
 These I removed with the end of my 
 stick, and having done so, read — 
 
 " To balance fortune by a just expense. 
 Join with economy, magnificence.-' 
 
 The quotation I remembered was from 
 Pope, and thought it rather a peculiar 
 sort of taste that had placed it where I now 
 saw it. 
 
 By this time, \'r. Pentland had suc- 
 ceeded in opening the door ; and we en- 
 tered. I found the hous3 to be an excel- 
 lent one — well-finished, commodious, and 
 judiciously arranged. 
 
 Having gone through all the rooms, we 
 fini.-hed our survey by a visit to the kitchen. 
 On entering this apartment, the first thing 
 that caught my eye, was a small board 
 over the fire-place, on which, in gilt let- 
 ters on a black ground, were the following 
 lines : — 
 
 " To worth or want, well-weighed, be bounty given 
 And ease, or emulate the care of Heaven : 
 Whose measure full o'erflow.s on human race. 
 Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace." 
 
 " What !" said I, " Pope again ?" 
 Mr. Pentland smiled. '' Ou ay, sir," 
 he at lengtii said, " Mr. Darsay had an 
 awfu wark wi' Pope ; and so had his man, 
 Ramsay. It was that brocht them first 
 thegither, and it's maistly that has keepit 
 them thegither ever since, nearly thirty 
 year. Mr. Darsay was ay gi'en us screeds 
 o' Pope ; and onybody that could quote 
 Pope to him, was sure to win his favor, 
 and to get a' the assistance he could gie 
 them in whatever way they micht want it. 
 It was a queer conceit o' his ; and mony a 
 time the worthy man was imposed on, by 
 designin folk, through the medium o' this 
 fancy. When ony o' that kind wanted his 
 assistance, they had naething ado but get 
 twa or three lines o' Pope by heart, come 
 to him wi' a lang face, and tak an oppor- 
 tunity o' slippin out the lines, and their 
 business was done. I've seeq him actually 
 shed tears when he was quotin his favorite 
 author. He was just clean crazed about 
 him. He made me a present o' the Essay 
 on Man, and gied me nae rest, nicht or 
 day, till I got every line o't by heart." 
 
 '^ But he did you a good service in that, 
 my friend," said I : "it is a noble poem 
 — full of fine thoughts, beautifully ex- 
 pressed." 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 531 
 
 " Nae doot o't," replied Mr. Pentland : 
 " I like the poem weel, and think as much 
 o' Pope as onj man. He is a great phi- 
 losopher, as well as a great poet ; but, my 
 excellent friend, JVlr. Darsay, just carried 
 the thing a wee owre far. His admiration 
 o' him, or rather his constant and open ex- 
 pression of that admiration, bordered on 
 the ridiculous ; it amounted to a weakness 
 — although, in other respects, Mr. Darsy 
 was a man of great good sense. I've 
 heard him and his man Ramsay — for he's 
 just as great an admirer o' Pope as his 
 master — firin quotations at ane anither for 
 an hour thegither. Indeed, they never 
 spoke for five minutes without exchangin 
 a couplet or twa, and seldom conversed on 
 onything else but the merits o' Pope." 
 
 In this sketch of the worthy proprietor 
 of Dryfield, I thought I recognised — what 
 I always took much delight in contemplat- 
 ing — an original character ; and this was 
 one of the best sort — a compound of oddi- 
 ty and benevolence. What had just been 
 told me of him, was enough to excite my 
 curiosity, but far from being enough to 
 gratify it. This, however, I hoped cir- 
 cumstances would yet effect for me ; for, 
 feeling amused by Mr. Darsy's peculiari- 
 ties, and interested by his worth, I deter- 
 mined on learning all about him that I 
 could ; and ample opportunity for doing 
 so was subsequently afforded me. 
 
 Having expressed to Mr. Pentland my 
 satisfaction with the house, and my wish 
 to take it, he proposed that we should ad- 
 journ to his residence, and there settle the 
 transaction by missive. We did so ; and 
 when the business was concluded, Mr. 
 Pentland kindly suggested that, as the 
 day was now far advanced, I had better 
 remain with him all night, and return 
 home the following morning with the first 
 coach. To this proposal, seeing that it 
 would afford me an opportunity of learning 
 something more of Mr. Darsy, I at once 
 agreed, and was soon after put in posses- 
 sion, by my good host, Mr. Pentland, of 
 some particulars regarding that gentleman, 
 
 which I thouojht micjht not be found un- 
 ' amusino;. 
 
 Of Mr. Darsy's early history (said Mr. 
 Pentland, who at my request, began an 
 account of his late worthy neighbor imme- 
 diately after the dinner-cloth had been 
 drawn), I do not know much. He was 
 bred, originally, I believe, for the church, 
 but never took orders ; for what reason I 
 am ignorant ; but have heard it alleged, 
 that it was owing to an extreme diffidence 
 of nature, which shrunk at the idea of 
 speaking in public. 
 
 Fortunately, his circumstances, al- 
 though far from being affluent, were such 
 as to enable him to yield to this timidity ; 
 and 1 am not sure that he ever adopted 
 any regular profession in lieu of the one 
 he abandoned. He bought Dryfield about 
 twenty years since, when he also came to 
 reside there ; and it was then my acquaint- 
 ance with him began. From that period 
 till his departure for France, we lived in the 
 closest intimacy and friendship ; and du- 
 ring all that period I never heard or saw 
 anything of him but what redounded to 
 his honoi'. To quote his own favorite 
 author — for he set us a' a-quoting Pope — 
 
 "Him, portioned maids, apprenticed orphans, blessed — 
 The young who labor, and the old who rest." 
 
 He was truly the Man of Ross, in all that 
 is kind and benevolent. 
 
 '' Oh, say," said I, smiling — 
 
 '•■ Oh, say, what sums that generous hand supply — 
 What mines to swell that boundless charity ?" 
 
 My kind host laughed heartily, and read- 
 ily replied — 
 
 "' Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, 
 This man possessed five hundred pounds a-year." 
 
 Such a sum, or one thereabouts, was, in 
 truth all his dependence ; yet the good he 
 did with it was amazino;. 
 
 When Mr. Darsy came first to our 
 neighborhood, his family consisted of his 
 sister only, and one servant maid ; and it 
 is probable it would never have received 
 any addition, but for the circumstances 
 which added Sandy Ramsay to the estab- 
 
532 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 lishment — as original a character as his 
 master. Sandy was a sort of general job- 
 ber of country work — a good hand at cut- 
 ting drains, clipping hedges, and felling 
 and thinning timber, making and erecting 
 wooden railings, &c., &c. 
 
 But, besides, and better than all this, 
 Sandy was a learned man. He read a 
 great deal, and was not a little vain of his 
 acquisitions in this way. He was, how- 
 ever, a lively, good-natured little fellow, 
 and very generally liked, notwithstanding 
 that he gave himself out for a philosopher, 
 and looked very grave and wise when he 
 was asserting his pretensions to that char- 
 acter, or when he thought those preten- 
 sions were either overlooked or denied. 
 
 Such was Sandy Ramsay, and such was 
 the person whom Mr. Darsy found one 
 morning, shortly after his arrival at Dry- 
 field, working; at a wooden railino; at a lit- 
 tie distance from the house. 
 
 " Good morning, honest man," said 
 Mr. Darsy, approaching him with that 
 kindly familiarity of manner which distin- 
 guished all his intercourse with his infe- 
 riors. 
 
 " Guid mornin, sir," replied Sandy, 
 resting on the wooden mallet with which 
 he was driving the rails. " Grand wather 
 for the country, sir." 
 
 '' Excellent," rejoined Mr. Darsy. 
 ^' The crops in this neighborhood look un- 
 commonly well, and I think we shall have 
 both an early and a plentiful harvest. 
 Thanks be to God !" 
 
 " Yes, sir, as ye say, thank God for't," 
 replied Sandy. " There's a reasonable 
 prospect o' baith peace and plenty in the 
 country ; and, as Pope says, 
 
 •• • This day bo bread and peace my lot ; 
 All else beneath the sun, 
 Thou knowest if best bestowed or not ; 
 And let thy will be done I' " 
 
 " Ah ! Pope, my friend," said Mr Dar- 
 sy, his eye sparkling with delight. " So 
 you are conversant with Pope, are you ?" 
 
 " A wee bit, sir. His works form the 
 staple o' my readm. 1 admire baith his 
 poetry and his philosophy." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! Well, do you know, I 
 like that," replied Mr. Darsy. " I'm 
 one of Pope's worshippers too. He is my 
 guide, philosopher, and friend. 
 
 " • Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease. 
 Intent to reason, or polite to please.' '' 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and better still," replied 
 Sandy, " he 
 
 " 'turned the tuneful art 
 From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart.' " 
 
 " And," shouted Mr. Darsy, in ec- 
 stasy — 
 
 '' 'For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light — 
 Show'd erring Pride, whatever is is right.' " 
 
 " And," exclaimed Sandy, energeti- 
 cally, and waving his hand aloft, in the 
 excitation of his feelings, as he spoke — 
 
 " ' That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
 That true self-love and social are the same.' " 
 
 Mr. Darsy, striking his stick emphati- 
 cally on the ground — 
 
 '• ' That virtue only makes our bliss below ; 
 
 And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.' ^ 
 
 Having thus finished the concluding part 
 of the Essay on Man between them, Mr. 
 Darsy, with a gracious and benevolent 
 smile, held out his hand to Sandy, seized 
 that of the latter, and shook it with cor- 
 dial warmth. From that moment, not- 
 withstanding the disparity of their social 
 positions, they were sworn friends. 
 
 In a short time after this, Mr. Darsy 
 proposed to Sandy to enter his service, at 
 a fixed rate of wages, to look after his 
 garden, and be otherwise generally useful. 
 To this proposal the latter readily assent- 
 ed ; and there have they been together 
 ever since, quoting Pope to one another 
 daily, and daily descanting on the merits 
 of their favorite author. 
 
 Having now got an able and active as- 
 sistant in Sandy Ramsay, and one who 
 had a very competent knowledge of agri- 
 cultural afiiiirs, Mr. Darsy determined on 
 cultivating the few acres of ground which 
 he had bought along with the house of 
 Dryfield. His resolution before had been 
 to let them ; but he now bethought him of 
 keeping them in his own hands. These 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 533 
 
 lands had been allowed to run to waste by 
 the former proprietor, who was a great 
 speculator in everything and in every way 
 where there was no chance of remunera- 
 tion. One of these speculations was, to 
 build, at various intervals, over the grounds 
 alluded to, a number of fantastic tower- 
 like structures, for a purpose which none 
 could guess, and which was wholly un- 
 known to all but the contriver himself. 
 
 Whatever the purpose was, however, for 
 which these towers were erected, they were 
 never applied to it. Some other whim 
 struck the noddle of the speculator, and 
 they were allowed — most of them only 
 half-built — to fall into ruins ; an eye-sore 
 to look at, and an encumbrance to the 
 ground. 
 
 These stone-and-lime vagaries Mr. Dar- 
 sy now determined on removing, and of 
 applying the surrounding lands to their 
 proper use. Full of this design, which 
 had suddenly struck him one day as he 
 was out walking, he hastened, on his re- 
 turn, to the garden where Ramsay was at 
 work, and told him of his intentions. 
 
 " I shall have all these lands laid down 
 in corn, Sandy," said Mr. Darsy. 
 
 " Richt, sir, richt," replied the former, 
 thrusting his spade into the ground, and 
 resting his elbow on the apex of the up- 
 right handle. " Quite richt too." 
 
 " Another year," said Mr. Darsy— 
 
 •• 'Another year shall see the golden ear 
 
 Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre ; 
 Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, 
 And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.' " 
 
 *'• Yes, sir," replied Sandy — 
 
 " •' 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, 
 
 And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.' '' 
 
 " No doubt of it, Sandy," said Mr. 
 Darsy. " Beautiful sentiment, and ad- 
 mirably expressed." 
 
 The project of cultivating the land hav- 
 ing been thus settled by the assistance of 
 Pope, Sandy was instructed to look out 
 for the necessary means, proper imple- 
 ments, and, first and most important of 
 all, a pair of good stout draught horses. 
 
 This last want of Mr. Darsy's was one 
 that soon became known throughout the 
 country ; and, as Mr. Darsy was always 
 reckoned a liberal and punctual man to 
 deal with, he had soon abundance of of- 
 fers ; and they were not a whit the less 
 numerous, perhaps, that he was thought 
 to be no great judge of the article he 
 wanted. 
 
 Amongst those whose ears Mr. Darsy's 
 want of a pair of horses reached, were 
 those of a certain dealer in horse-flesh of 
 the name of William Craig, as great a 
 rascal as Scotland perhaps ever had the 
 honor of producing ; but he was withal a 
 pleasant knave, and always cheated with 
 the greatest good-humor imaginable. The 
 smile was never off his countenance, ex- 
 cepting when he saw it for his interest to 
 look grave, and then he could put on a 
 face of sympathy and sentiment that it 
 would break your heart to look at. He 
 was, in short, a most plausible and most 
 accomplished scoundrel — clever, and well- 
 informed. 
 
 On hearing that Mr. Darsy wanted a 
 couple of horses, and that he had already 
 rejected several that had been offered 
 him — 
 
 "I'll try my hand on him," said Wil- 
 lie ; " and if I dinna fix him, blame me." 
 
 *' Do you mean by gi'en him a fair 
 bargain, Willie .?" inquired the friend to 
 whom he had made the boast above quoted. 
 
 " Never did that in my life to anybody, 
 and I'm no gaun to begin now," replied 
 Willie. 
 
 " Then, how do you propose to fix him, 
 Willie, as ye ca't .^" 
 
 " Leave that to me," said the honest 
 horse-jocky. " I'll do him owre as clean's 
 a leek. I'll trot him out as cleverly as I 
 ever did ony beast wi' four legs. I hae 
 the secret o' him." 
 
 " What do you ca' the secret o' him, 
 Willie ? What do you mean by that.^" 
 
 " Aha, lad ! How's your mother V* 
 replied Willie, laughing, and touching the 
 side of his nose emphatically, with the 
 
534 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 point of his forefinger. " I'll keep my 
 thumb on that till I hae tried it." 
 
 On that very afternoon, Willie posted 
 off to Dryfield with a couple of horses, on 
 which he had practised every secret of 
 his art to give them a passable appear- 
 ance. On one of the horses Willie him- 
 self was mounted ; the other he led by a 
 halter ; and, thus disposed, arrived at a 
 swinging trot at Mr. Darsy's. That gen- 
 tleman had seen his approach from a win- 
 dow, and guessing the purpose of his visit, 
 was now at the door to receive him. 
 
 Willie touched his hat: — 
 
 " Heard, sir, that ye war in want o' a 
 pair o' guid workin beasts," said Willie, 
 " and hae broucht ye twa prime anes here 
 to look at. No a bonnier or better pair 
 between this and Johnny Groat's, and just 
 a real bargain as to price." 
 
 *' Why, my good fellow, I certainly do 
 want a couple of good draught horses," 
 replied Mr. Darsy, eyeing Willie's bar- 
 gain with a scrutinizing look ; for he had 
 already been so often the subject of at- 
 tempted imposition in the way of horse- 
 dealing, that he could not help entertain- 
 ing suspicions of the intentions of every 
 one who approached him for such a pur- 
 pose. " I certainly do want a couple of 
 good draught horses," he said; "but 
 really, being no great judge myself, and 
 some attempts having been made to take 
 
 me in, I — I " 
 
 " Feth, I weel believe that, sir," in- 
 terposed Willie. " It's just incredible the 
 villany that's practised in this tred o' 
 ours. Some men hae nae conscience, and 
 wad sell their very souls for gould — gould 
 — gould — that curse o' the human race, 
 I that some think was 
 
 " ' Sent to keep the fools in play, 
 
 For some to heap, and some to throw away. 
 
 '' 'But J, who think more highly of onr kind, 
 (And surely Heaven and /are of a mind.) 
 Opine that Nature, as in duty bound, 
 Deep hid the shining mischief under ground.' 
 
 That's my opinion, sir," continued Willie ; 
 " and I houp ye '11 excuse the liberty I hae 
 taen o' gi'en ye't in poetry, but Pope 
 
 comes tricklin aff my tongue, whether I 
 will or no, like water aff a dyuck's back." 
 " Excuse ye, my friend," said the as- 
 tonished and delighted Mr. Darsy, with a 
 gracious smile. " My dear sir, your quo- 
 tation requires no apology. It is appro- 
 priate, and to the purpose. A fine idea — 
 tersely and pithily expressed. The man, 
 sir, who studies Pope as he ought to be 
 studied, and who acts on the principles 
 he inculcates, will infallibly secure 
 
 '•' ' What nothing earthly gives or can destroy — 
 
 The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.' " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Willie — 
 
 '• ' Say, in pursuit of profit and delight, 
 
 Who risk the most, that take wrong means, or right, 
 Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst ; 
 Which meets contempt, ar which compassion first ; 
 Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains — 
 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains.' " 
 
 " It is, it is !" shouted Mr. Darsy, in 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " Enough, my dear sir, enough," he 
 said, extending his hand to Willie, while 
 a tear of emotion glistened in his eye. 
 " Come into the house, and take a littie 
 refreshment, and let us see if we cannot 
 make a bargain about these horses. They 
 look very well, and, I daresay, will suit 
 my purpose." 
 
 " Just the very thing, sir, ye may de- 
 pend on't," replied Willie, who had now 
 dismounted, and was holding both horses 
 by the halters. " There's that black ane, 
 I'm unco sweert to part wi't ; but the 
 want o' siller gars a puir man mak mony 
 a sacrifice baith to his interest and to his 
 feelins. 0' that black horse, sir, I may 
 safely say there's no his match in the 
 county ; yet, I daurna, nor wadni ask his 
 price for him, for it wad be considered 
 just an imposition." 
 
 " But, my good friend," interposed Mr. 
 Darsy, " I hope you do not think that I 
 would take the advantage of you in any 
 way — that I would avail myself of the 
 urgency of your necessities, to give you 
 less than the just value of your horse. 
 God forbid ! You shall have his price, 
 be that what it may." 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 535 
 
 " Oh, I'm no misdootin that, sir, no the 
 least ; but " 
 
 " I say, my friend, by the way" (here 
 again interrupted Mr. Darsy, as they ap- 
 proached the house, being now within a 
 few yards of the door), "be so good as 
 make no allusion to Pope in the presence 
 of my sister, whom you will likely see ; for 
 she, poor woman, has just as little philo- 
 sophy about her as the rest of her sex. 
 
 * Woman and fool,' you know — 
 
 " ' Woman and fool are too hard to liit ; 
 
 For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.' " 
 
 Willie smiled. "No far wrang, sir, I 
 dare say. It's, I doot, owre true." 
 
 " She's a good, kind-hearted creature," 
 resumed Mr. Darsy ; " but if there be any 
 one thing on earth that she abhors above 
 all other things, it is Pope. She cannot 
 endure his name, ever since she read his 
 
 * Characters of Women ;' but you and I, 
 my friend, know, that there is more truth 
 in that essay than her sex would willingly 
 allow. 
 
 '' ' In them we various ruling passions find ; 
 [n women, two almost divide the kind. 
 Those, only fixed, they first and last obey — 
 The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.' " 
 
 Havino- now reached the hou.se, Mr. 
 Darsy desired Willie to remain a minute 
 in charge of the horses, until he went for 
 his factotum, Sandy Ramsay, whom he 
 wished to see the animals, and whose judg- 
 ment he meant to consult, as to their pur- 
 chase Sandy he found, as usual, in the 
 garden. 
 
 " Here is a decent, honest, well-inform- 
 ed, and intelligent man, Sandy," said Mr. 
 Darsy, " with a pair of horses for sale, 
 which I wish you to come and look at." 
 
 "What ca' they him, sir.^" inquired 
 Sandy, 
 
 " Why, T don't know ; I didn't ask his 
 name," replied Mr. Darsy. 
 
 " I hope it's no Willie Craig," said the 
 former, drawing on his coat; "for he's a 
 slippery chicl, Willie ; and I wadna say 
 that even my caution wad be a match for 
 his ciinnino;." 
 
 " Whether his name be Craig or not, I 
 
 do not know," replied Mr. Darsy ; " but 
 this I do know, that he seems to be a very 
 intelligent and conscientious man. He is 
 a great admirer of our favorite author, 
 Sandy, and quotes him with great pro- 
 priety and facility ; and of such a man I 
 would not willingly believe any ill." 
 
 " He quotes Pope, sir, does he !" ex- 
 claimed Sandy; " then, sir, he's just the 
 man. That's Willie Craig, beyond a' 
 manner o' doot ; and the biggest rogue this 
 day in Scotland." 
 
 " Come, come, Sandy," said Mr. Darsy, 
 a little severely — shocked at the idea of a 
 rogue quoting Pope, and disbelieving the 
 existence of such a moral incongruity. 
 "Come, come, Sandy," he said, "you 
 judge too harshly ; you speak unguardedly. 
 The man is, I doubt not, a very honest 
 ) man ; and ' An honest man,' you know, 
 Sandy, ' is the noblest work of God.' " 
 
 " I've seen that disputed, sir," said 
 Sandy; "and, I think, after a', wi' some 
 success. A man o' great parts and genius 
 is surely a nobler creature than a'." 
 
 " I'm grieved, Sandy, to find your mo- 
 ral perceptions so weak," here interrupted 
 Mr. Darsy. " Don't you see, or rather 
 will you not see, that " 
 
 " I really canna see, sir," interrupted 
 Sandy, in his turn, " that " 
 
 " Well, but let me explain myself," 
 again interrupted Mr. Darsy ; and having 
 at length obtained this permission, he 
 went on to expound the disputed text, 
 after his own views of its bearings. 
 
 Sandy replied ; Mr. Darsy rejoined ; 
 and a hot dispute of a good half hour's 
 continuance, ensued between master and 
 man, on the moral points involved in the 
 quotation ; such disputes, by the way, 
 beino' a frequent occurrence between 
 them ; for, although they agreed most 
 cordially on the general merits of Pope, 
 there were many minute points — some, as 
 to the meaning of passages ; others, as to 
 their morality — on which they difi'ered, as 
 on the present occasion, and on which 
 they spoke for hours on end. 
 
536 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 To return to the instance just now under 
 notice : — They were thus engaged — that 
 is, settling the moral bearing of the quota- 
 tion above given, and so earnest in their 
 employment as to bo totally oblivious of 
 everything else — and, amongst the rest, 
 Willie Craig and his horses — when Miss 
 Darsy came running into the garden just 
 as her brother had begun a new section 
 of his defence of Pope, with — 
 
 "Pope, su* — I say, Pope distinctly 
 
 -•' "believe me — good as well as ill — 
 
 means 
 
 Darsy 
 
 }")•) 
 
 "Gracious heaven, Mr. JJarsy:" ex- 
 claimed Miss Sarah, " are you at that 
 odious Pope again "^ Have you forgotten 
 that there has been a man with two horses 
 waiting on you for this half hour past. 
 It is too bad — too bad, Mr. Darsy." 
 
 " I acknowledge it, my dear — I acknow- 
 ledge it," replied the benevolent and good- 
 natured Popeite, smiling kindly on his sis- 
 ter ; " but I am sure the honest man will 
 forgive me, when I tell him the cause." 
 
 " Will he V said his sister. " I should 
 rather think he will consider it an aggra- 
 vation of the offence." 
 
 " There you are wrong, Sarah, my 
 dear," rejoined Mr. Darsy ; " for the man 
 understands these things." 
 
 " What!" exclaimed his sister in alarm 
 — " Does he quote Pope too .'' Do horse- 
 jockeys quote Pope .?" 
 
 " And why not, my dear .^" said Mr, 
 Darsy, gladly seizing on this general query 
 to avoid making any discoveries on the 
 particular one. " Why not, my dear ? 
 Why may not a liorse-jockey understand 
 and appreciate Pope as well as any other 
 man t There is nothing to hinder 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, certainly not," replied Miss 
 Darsy ; " but, oh, if he was dosed with 
 Pope as I am — if he had Pope ! Pope ! 
 ringing in his ears night and day, in all 
 situations and on all occasions, as I have 
 — he would grow sick, sick, at the very 
 
 Sarah, Sarah I" replied her 
 
 name. 
 " Ah ! 
 
 brother, smilins- 
 
 j 
 
 Woman's at best ' " 
 
 " Pope again !" screamed Miss Darsy, 
 putting her fingers in her ears, and rush- 
 ing distractedly away from her Pope-mad 
 brother. 
 
 The latter looked after her with a smile 
 of pity, and perhaps a very slight matter 
 of contempt mingled with it, and began 
 again, and finished with additional empha- 
 sis, the quotation in which he had been 
 interrupted. Then, turning to Sandy — 
 
 " Let us go and take a look of this 
 honest man's horses, Sandy," he ScOid. 
 " We have used him rather ill, after all ; 
 but I'll explain." 
 
 In the next minute, the parties had 
 met ; and the first thing Mr. Darsy did 
 was to explain to Willie, as he had pro- 
 posed to do, the reason of his absence. 
 
 " A' richt, sir— a' richt," replied Wil- 
 lie, graciously. " There's far frae bein 
 ony harm dune ; and, besides, your excuse 
 is a guid ane, although ye had been an 
 hour langer." 
 
 Willie, at the special request of Sandy 
 Ramsay, now proceeded to put his horses 
 through their paces ; and, while the for- 
 mer was at a little distance in the per- 
 formance of this duty — " Is that the man 
 you meant, Sandy V' said Mr. Darsy. 
 
 " I dinna ken him by sight, sir — only 
 by repute," replied Sandy ; " but, if he 
 quotes Pope to you, he maun be the man ; 
 for he's a cunning scoundrel, and, doubt- 
 less, kens you're fond o' the little crook- 
 ed poet." 
 
 " Sandy, Sandy, you have a scurrilous 
 tongue," said Mr. Darsy. " You'll find 
 the man prove an honest one, I have no 
 doubt ; and will, I am sure, feel then 
 ashamed of what 3'ou are now sayin"- to 
 his prejudice." 
 
 " Maybe, sir ; but I'll be surer 0' my 
 man after I hae hoard a quotation or twa ; 
 and still surer after ye hae bocht the 
 horses ; for, if he doesna do ye, he's most 
 assuredly no Willie Craig." 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 537 
 
 b}- the return of the horse-dealer, who 
 approached them, leading one of his 
 horses at a full trot. Both animals having 
 been subjected to this display — 
 
 " Now, my good friend," said Mr. 
 DaVsy, " what's your price .^" 
 
 '' Why, then, juist to be at a word wi' 
 ye, sir," replied Willie, taking off his hat 
 with one hand, and scratching his head 
 with the other — " I'll take thirty guineas 
 for the black ane, and twenty for the 
 brown ; and I'm sure that's a dead bargain 
 • — ^juist throwin the cattle awa. It's no a 
 month since I was offered forty guineas in 
 my loof for that black beast ; but I wasna 
 sae hard pressed for siller then as I'm noo, 
 and I refused it." 
 
 " Sandy," said Mr. Darsy, turning to 
 the farmer, " what do you say to these 
 prices ? You have some knowledge of 
 horses." 
 
 " I say, sir, that, as near as I can guess, 
 they're juist aboot the dooble o' what 
 they ocht to be. That black horse, if I'm 
 no mistaen, is broken-winded, and '11 be 
 dead lame in a week ; and the brown ane's 
 no a grain better." 
 
 Willie looked at Mr. Darsy with a smile 
 of conscious integrity, and of calm con- 
 tempt at once of the slander and the 
 judi>-uient of the slanderer. The unsus- 
 pecting Mr. Darsy returned the look, 
 attributing Sandy's decision to prejudice. 
 
 " Come now, Sandy," said the former, 
 " forget that you have an interest to serve 
 in this matter, and deal fairly between man 
 and man." 
 
 " But it's no between man and man, 
 sir," said Sandy : " it's between man and 
 a horse-jockey ; and it's weel kent, that's 
 no a fair match. It wad take the deil 
 himsel to deal wi' a horse-couper." 
 
 Willie smiled again the smile of con- 
 scious innocence ; and, turning to Mr. 
 Darsy, said — 
 
 " I rather think that ye will agree wi' 
 me, sir, that 
 
 " ' Honor and shame from no condition rise ; 
 Act well jour part ' "— 
 
 and he looked expressively at Sandy — 
 
 " • tJierc all the honor lies.' " 
 
 " Unquestionably," replied Mr. Darsy. 
 " it is 
 
 " 'Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; 
 The rest is all but leather and prunello.' " 
 
 " Yes, sir, said Willie — 
 
 " ' For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight. 
 His can't he wrong whose life is in tlie right.' " 
 
 " Certainly not— certainly not," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Darsy in raptures. 
 
 '' ' One self-approving hour whole years out-weighs 
 Of stupid starers, and of loud hurras.' " 
 
 " Nae denyn't," said Willie : " and, to 
 a' wha doot it, I wad say — 
 
 " ' Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know), 
 Virtue alone is happiness below.' " 
 
 And, as he repeated the last line, he laid 
 his hand with solemn emphasis on his 
 heart. 
 
 This last quotation did Willie's busi- 
 ness, 
 
 " Come, come," said Mr. Darsy, shed- 
 ding tears of delight, and taking Willie 
 by the arm to conduct him into the house 
 — •' let us settle this small matter at once, 
 and offhand. Just say at once, my friend, 
 the lowest sum you really will take for 
 these horses, and they are mine. Sandy 
 there is a well-meaning man, but he has 
 his prejudices as we all have." 
 
 " Weel then, sir, just to be at a word 
 wi' ye," replied Willie, " I'll taknine and 
 twenty guineas for the black horse, and 
 nineteen for the brown ane ; and if that's 
 no a bargain, I never gied or got ane in 
 my life." 
 
 " They're no worth the half o't, I man- 
 teen," exclaimed Sandy, energetically 
 
 " Hush, Sandy, hush, man," said Mr. 
 Darsy. " I'm sure the horses are a fair 
 bargain. This honest man would never 
 ask more than they are worth." 
 
 " Wadna he, feth !" said Sandy, with 
 a satirical smile. " Sir, I'm thinkin ye'll 
 fin' out that before ye're a week aulder. 
 Wait ye till the horses hae been twa days 
 in the plough, and ye'll see whether he 
 
538 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 has asked mair than the worth o' them or 
 no. I wadna trust him farer than I could 
 throw a bull by the tail." 
 
 " Sandy, Sandy," exclaimed Mr. Dar- 
 sy, in a deprecating tone, " you have 
 really a scandalous tongue. Have you 
 forgot that beautiful verse in the Univer- 
 sal Prayer — 
 
 '• ' Teach me to feel another's wo, 
 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 Thafc mercj' I to others show. 
 
 That mercy show to me.' " 
 
 " That's a' very weel, sir ; but I can- 
 na ao-ree to hide the cheat I see — that's a 
 different sort o' thing a'thegither." 
 
 *' Sandy," said Mr. Darsy, in a still 
 more angry tone, " I really will hear no 
 more of this." And, thus rebuked, San- 
 dy said no more ; he saw it would be 
 useless. 
 
 Leaving the latter in charge of the 
 horses, Mr. Darsy and Willie now went 
 into the house ; and there the latter re- 
 ceived the price of his cattle, together with 
 a comfortable refection, during vv^hich he 
 and his host kept up a running fire of 
 quotations from Pope. 
 
 The former, as the reader will recollect, 
 had cautioned the latter not to make any 
 allusion to the author just named in the 
 hearino; of his sister ; and this caution 
 Willie observed. He took care to make 
 no quotations while she was present ; but 
 he had not been put on his guard against 
 her overhearing; them, and the conse- 
 quence was, that some of them were made 
 in a tone so emphatically loud, that she 
 did overhear them, even from the distance 
 of an adjoining apartment. Perhaps few 
 else than Miss Sarah could have discerned 
 what were the words so spoken ; but her 
 ears were so sensitively alive to the lan- 
 guage of the abhorred Pope, that she at 
 once recognized them ; and on doing so, 
 immediately sent for her brother to come 
 and speak with her, for she had known him 
 to have been repeatedly swindled by Pope- 
 quoters before, some of whom had com- 
 mitted a scrap or two to memory for the 
 express purpose. 
 
 " James," said Miss Sarah, on his 
 coming into the apartment where she was, 
 ^' I hear that man quoting Pope. Now, 
 James, I beg you'll be on your guard ; for 
 you may depend upon it he intends to 
 cheat you. Recollect how often you have 
 been taken in by Pope-quoters, There 
 was the man that borrowed five pounds 
 from you, on the strength of a quotation ; 
 there was the man that got your name to 
 a fifty pound bill, of which you had after- 
 wards to pay every farthing, through pre- 
 cisely a similar claim on your bounty — 
 for he had no other ; then there was the 
 fellow whom you recommended to the 
 wood-merchants, and who forged a bill on 
 his employers ; then there were the silver 
 spoons that you bought from the pack- 
 man, and that turned out to be pewter 
 and tin — all because they quoted Pope ; 
 
 then there was But it would take me a 
 
 week to go over half the impositions of 
 which you have been the victim, through 
 that detested and detestable Pope." 
 
 To this tirade poor Mr. Darsy listened 
 with the utmost patience and meekness, 
 while a smile of good-nature, blended 
 with an expression of pity for his sister's 
 blindness to the merits of the poet, played 
 on his intellioient and benevolent coun- 
 
 o 
 
 tenance. 
 
 " Well, Sarah, my dear," he said, when 
 his sister had done speaking, " if I have 
 been taken in by these people, as I am 
 willing enough to allow I have, whether 
 does the shame and disgrace lie with them 
 or me .'^" 
 
 " I do not know, James, where the 
 shame and disgrace lie," said his sister ; 
 '^ but I have a pretty good guess, and so 
 have you, where the loss does. But all 
 that I have to say just now, James, is — 
 be on your guard in your dealings with 
 this Pope-quoting horse-couper." 
 
 Mr. Darsy was about to come out with 
 a quotation in reply — he had a very apt 
 one at his finger-ends ; but, recollecting 
 that this would only farther irritate his 
 sister, he made a violent effort and sup- 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 539 
 
 pressed it, and merely said, witli his usual 
 gentle and benevolent smile — 
 
 '' I'll take care, Sarah, my dear, I'll 
 take care." And, saying this, he left the 
 apartment, and rejoined Willie Craig, 
 who, soon after, took his leave with his 
 money in his pocket, and a good dose of 
 whisky punch under his belt. 
 
 On leavino- the house, Willie came ac- 
 cidentally across Sandy Ramsay, who was 
 at the moment in the act of yoking the 
 black horse to a cart. 
 
 '' Ye hae gotten a prime beast there, 
 Sandy," said Willie. 
 
 " If we hae, I'm thinking we ha,e paid 
 as weel for him," replied the latter, drily. 
 " I'm dootin ye hae saft-saped the master 
 to some purpose. Ye hae come Pope 
 owre him, as other folks hae dune before 
 
 ye." 
 
 Willie smiled significantly, clapped his 
 finger to his nose, and walked on without 
 vouchsafing any other reply. 
 
 " What horse is that, Sandy ?" said 
 Mr. Darsy, on the forenoon of the second 
 day after Willie Craig's visit, as the for- 
 mer approached the house, leading an old 
 grey, lame beast by the halter. 
 
 " Do ye no ken him, sir .^" replied San- 
 dy, with an ominous smile. 
 
 " No," rejoined Mr. Darsy, gravely. 
 
 " Indeed, it's little wonder. This is 
 Willie Craig's black horse, but your grey 
 ane." 
 
 '' What do you mean, Sandy ?" said 
 Mr. Darsy, in a tone of alarm. " You 
 don't mean to say that that's my horse, my 
 black horse ?" 
 
 " It's a' that's for him, sir," replied 
 Sandy. '^ A shower o' rain's made a' the 
 difference. It has washed him into what 
 you see him — made him as grey's an auld 
 rat ; but, his change o' color's no the 
 warst o't. See, he hasna a leg to staun 
 upon ; and every teeth that was in his 
 head's faun oot. There they are, every 
 ane." And Sandy pulled out a handful 
 of horse-teeth out of his pocket. " I hur- 
 ried him hame out o' the pleugh," contin- 
 
 ued Sandy, " before he wad fa' in pieces 
 a'thegither, as I expected every moment 
 he wad do." 
 
 Mr. Darsy held up his hands in amaze- 
 ment at this most extraordinary metamor- 
 phosis of his famous black charger, and 
 muttered an ejaculation of surprise at the 
 very strange occurrence ; but said nothing 
 for a few seconds. Althouo;h he said no- 
 thing, however, he felt a good deal ; not 
 for the pecuniary loss it involved — for that 
 he did not care — but for the credit of the 
 admirers of Pope. His sister, too — what 
 would she say to it .'' Here was another 
 instance of imposition chargeable against 
 his adored author, to add to the longj list 
 of which she was already in possession. 
 It was an awkward affair. He would ten 
 times rather that the price of the horse 
 had been thrown into the sea ; and this 
 he would cheerfully have done, had the 
 alternative been put in his power. But 
 there was no help for it. 
 
 " Sandy," said Mr. Darsy, after musing 
 for a moment on the astounding deception 
 which had just come to light, ^' I'll tell 
 you what it is, regarding this very strange 
 affair. I think it very possible — nay, 
 very likely — that the man, Craig, has 
 been himself imposed upon with this horse, 
 and that he knew nothing of its defects ; 
 for I cannot believe that so decent, intel- 
 ligent, and well-informed a man as he is, 
 could be guilty of such villany as this. 
 I cannot believe it. Now, then, Sandy, 
 I'll tell you what you'll do — you'll take 
 the brown horse " 
 
 a ^p yQ^p leave, sir, I'll no do that ; 
 for yon beast's no chancy to come near, 
 let alane to ride. He's the maist vicious 
 brute I ever saw ; and '11 neither hap, stap, 
 nor win. I dinna think ye '11 ever get ony 
 guid o' him." 
 
 " God bless me !" exclaimed Mr. Dar- 
 sy, confounded at this additional misfor- 
 tune ; " he seemed quiet enough when 
 brought here by Craig." 
 
 " Nae doot o't ; — he did," replied 
 Sandy; "and heaven knows hoo the 
 
540 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 scoundrel managed it ! But he's a very 
 different thing noo, I can tell ye, sir." 
 
 " Dear me ! that's really odd," said Mr. 
 Darsy. " Well, then, Sandy, I'll tell 
 you what you'll do : you'll go to our good 
 neighbor, Mr. Pentland, and get the loan 
 of a pony from him, and ride over the 
 length of Craig's — he lives, you know, at 
 Longlane ; it's only about nine miles 
 distant — and tell him what has taken 
 place ; and I have no doubt he will at 
 once refund the money; or, at any rate, 
 give us other horses instead of those we 
 have bought. He, indeed, said he would 
 do the former, if we found anything wrong 
 with them within a month." 
 
 " Catch him there, sir, if ye can," said 
 Sandy. " The deil a boddle o' the price 
 he'll ever gie back. He's no sae saft in 
 the horn as that. He wad promise ye, I 
 hae nae doot — he pro-misesthe same thing 
 to every ane he sells a horse to ; but 
 whar's the man ever got a penny back frae 
 Willie Craig, for a' that ? I wad gie half- 
 a-croon mysel to see him." 
 
 " Well, well, but do you just try him, 
 Sandy," said Mr. Darsy ; " and I have 
 no doubt you will find all turn out right, 
 notwithstanding of appearances."' 
 
 Thus summarily enjoined, Sandy ob- 
 tained the loan of a pony, mounted, and 
 set off for Longlane, to have an interview 
 with Willie Craig on the subject of his 
 master's purchase. 
 
 Willie was standing at the door of his 
 own house when Sandy approached ; and, 
 knowing well what he came about, would 
 have retreated; but it was too late. He 
 was seen ; and, aware of this, he kept his 
 ground manfully, and resolved to face out 
 fearlessly the coming storm, as he had 
 done many a one of a similar kind before. 
 On Sandy's approach, Willie, thrusting 
 his hands into his breeches pockets, and 
 bursting into a loud laugh, hailed his com- 
 ing visitor with — 
 
 ''Come, then, my friend! my genius t come 
 along ! " 
 
 *' Ay, I'll come along," replied Sandy, 
 
 ! anirrily; " and maybe ye 'II find it to your 
 I cost." 
 
 " Awake, my St John !" shouted 
 Willie— 
 
 "Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things 
 To low ambition, and the pride of kings } 
 Let us. (.since life can little more supply.) 
 Than just to look about us, and to die. -' 
 
 " Come, come, Willie, nane o' yer 
 blarney for me," said Sandy, now dis- 
 mounting. " Ye 're no gaun to saft-sape 
 me that way. What kind o' horses were 
 they ye selt us .^" 
 
 '' Just the very pick o' the country," 
 replied Willie, coolly. 
 
 " Ay, if ye mean the warst," said 
 Sandy. " But, to come to the point at 
 once — I'm sent here, Willie, by Mr. 
 Darsy — although I ken weelit's a fruitless 
 errand — to tell ye that yer horses hae 
 turned oot to be no worth their hides ; 
 that yer black ane has changed to a dirty 
 grey wi' a shower o' rain, and is dead lame ; 
 and that the brown ane '11 neither work in 
 plough nor cart." 
 
 " Dear me, Sandy, ye surprise me ?" 
 replied Willie, with a look of amazement 
 as like the genuine as it was possible for 
 any man to assume. 
 
 " Maybe I do," said Sandy ; ^' but I 
 hardly believe it. However, this being the 
 case, my master has sent me to say that he 
 expects you'll refund him the siller, as ye 
 promised, or find him ither twa horses 
 worth the amount, in their stead." 
 
 " Whee-ee-ee-ou !" whistled Willie. 
 "Is that the next o't.=> Weel, I didna 
 think your maister was sae unreasonable 
 a man as that comes to, Sandy ; but there's 
 a heap o' queer folk in this world." 
 
 " My feth ! there's that," said the lat- 
 ter ; "and some o' them no far aff." 
 
 " As lang's yr^e sae near, ye may say 
 that Sandy," replied Willie ; " but to gie 
 ye an answer to Mr. Darsy, tell him, wi' 
 my compliments, Sandy, that there's a 
 truth among Pope's maxims that he doesna 
 seem to hae fan oot. Tell him, wi' my 
 best respects, that, in 
 
THE GOODMAN OP DRYFIELD. 
 
 541 
 
 " ' Spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
 One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.' 
 
 Tell ye him that^ Sandy, and I'm sure 
 he'll be perfectly satisfied." 
 
 " Do ye no mean to refund the money, 
 then :" inquired Sandy. 
 
 " Deil a cowrie," said Willie. 
 
 " Nor to gie him ither horses in ex- 
 change .^" 
 
 "iVo a hoof." 
 
 " Weel, then, ye are an infernal scoun- 
 drel — that's a' I hae to say," replied 
 Sandy, remounting his pony, and starting 
 off on his return home. 
 
 On arriving at Dryfield, Sandy hastened 
 to Mr. Darsy's apartment, to imform him 
 of the result of his mission ; but on open- 
 ing the door, drew hastily back again, on 
 findino: a stran2;er in the room, 
 
 " Come in — come in, Sandy," said Mr. 
 Daisy, on observing the former retreating. 
 This gentlemen will excuse your intrusion ; 
 for he is a 
 
 '• • Friend to truth I of soul sincere. 
 
 In action faithful, and in honor clear.' '• 
 
 It might be so — of this we shall be bet- 
 tcs able to judge by and by ; but the read- 
 er will think with us, we have little doubt, 
 that this was saying rather too much of an 
 acuuaintance of half-an-hour ; for no 
 longer had the stranger been known to 
 him by whom he was thus so highly com- 
 plimented. Mr. Darsy's visitor was, or, 
 at least, represented himself to be, an 
 itinerant preacher, who aware, as he said, 
 of that gentleman's benevolence and hospi- 
 tality had taken the liberty of calling on 
 him as he passed on his pious vocation. 
 This account of himself and calling, he 
 wound up with a very apt quotation from 
 Pope ; and, we need hardly add, that it 
 was to this circumstance he was mainly 
 indebted for the rapid progress he had 
 made in I\[r. Darsy's affections. 
 
 To return to our story : — On ]Mr. 
 Darsy's repeating the couplet above quot- 
 ed, the stranger, w^ho was a decent, quiet, 
 elderly man, dressed in somewhat rusty 
 blacks, smiled at the compliment, and 
 
 looked graciously on Sandy, as if at once 
 to assure him that he need be under no 
 restraint on his account, and that he was, 
 in truth, the worthy person which Mr, 
 Darsy had represented him to be. Thus 
 encouraged, Sandy entered the apartment; 
 and, at Mr. Darsy's request, told the re- 
 sult of his mission. On hearing it, the 
 worthy man merely shook his head, and 
 said — 
 
 " Well, well, Sandy, there's no help 
 for it. We must just take better care 
 next time." 
 
 He then explained to the stranger gentle- 
 man the nature of the transaction. The 
 good man was horrified, held up his hands 
 in amazement, and recited, with much 
 feeling and solemnity — 
 
 " The good must merit God's peculiar care : 
 But who but God can tell us who they are ?' 
 
 " Ah, who indeed .^" said Mr. Darsy^ 
 smiling. " There is the difficulty." 
 
 " Ay, there, indeed, it is," said the 
 stran2;er, Siinlin2: in his turn. '' Who but 
 God can tell the pure from the impure of 
 heart } Who but he separate the tares 
 from the wheat — the corn from the chaff .^ 
 None else, indeed, my respected friend" — 
 looking benevolently on Mr. Darsy, 
 
 " My dear sir," replied the latter, em- 
 phatically, and taking his benevolent-look- 
 ing visitor by the hand, to mark his deep 
 sense of the truths w^hich he delivered. 
 '^ My dear sir,'' he said, adding no more 
 in words, but looking the remainder of the 
 sentence, which, when translated, said — 
 "you speak well and wisely." After a 
 moment — " My good sir !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Darsy, glancing at his visitor's shoes, 
 which appeared much travel-soiled, " I 
 suspect you have had a long walk to-day. 
 You seemed fatigued. Now, you will 
 take a little of something or other — a 
 glass or two of wine, or a little brandy, 
 or something of that sort, till dinner is 
 ready." 
 
 " You are too good — too good, my very 
 excellent and much respected friend," re- 
 plied the stranger ; " but," he added, with 
 
TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 a subdued yet significant look, " there are 
 other men of Ross than he whom Pope 
 celebrated. There are others — 
 
 " ' Whose causeway parts the vale with shody rows, 
 Whose seats the weary traveller repose.' ■' 
 
 This couplet, which was given in a mild 
 and gentle tone, was so palpably directed 
 to Mr. Darsy, that he could not avoid 
 seeing its intended application to himself; 
 and, seeing this, he shook his head and 
 smiled a disclaimer. 
 
 " My good friend," he said, " I have but 
 slender pretension to any portion of that 
 noble character, so masterly drawn by the 
 immortal bard of Twickenham ; yet do 1 
 agree with what the poet elsewhere says, 
 that 
 
 •• ' All fame is foreign but of true desert- 
 Plays round the head, hut comes not to the heart — 
 One self-approving hour whole years outweighs. 
 Of stupid starers and of loud hurras ; 
 And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels, 
 Than CeEsar with a senate fit his heels.' " 
 
 The stranger smiled, bowed, and looked 
 benevolently on his host. 
 
 " Beautiful — beautiful !" he exclaimed, 
 in a tone of rapture. " How terse — how 
 forcible. Yet, Mr. Darsy, there are 
 those — ay, there are those who say that 
 Pope is no poet !" 
 
 Mr, Darsy smiled gi-imly. 
 " I have heard," he said, " that there 
 are such monsters in human shape ; but I 
 have never been so unfortunate as to meet 
 with one of them. If I did, I do not know 
 what I should do. I think I should mur- 
 der the Goth off-hand. I believe 1 should. 
 No human patience could stand against 
 such heresy — such blasphemy, as 1 may 
 call it." 
 
 Mr. Darsy now rung the bell, and de- 
 sired the servant to put some wine and 
 brandy on the table. The order was im- 
 mediately complied with, and the two 
 Popeites forthwith drew in. 
 
 " Wine or brandy, my dear sir .?" said 
 Mr. Darsy. 
 
 " Why," said the gentle stranger, who, 
 by the way, had given in his name as 
 Claythorn — " why," he said, with a quiet, 
 
 pleasant smile, " I will take a little brandy, 
 if you please.' Wine doesn't agree with 
 the. I find the alcohol safer." 
 
 " Then help yourself, my dear friend, "re- 
 plied Mr. Darsy ; and Mr. Darsy 's friend 
 did help himself, and that with a liberality 
 which was rather surprising in one of his 
 cloth ; although it would not have surpris- 
 ed at any one who had studied and drawn 
 the proper conclusion from the appearance 
 of his nose, which was of a bright, lumin- 
 ous red. Having finished his first jorum, 
 Mr. Darsy pressed his dear friend to an- 
 other tifter; and his dear fiiend, nothing 
 loth, did as he was desired ; presenting 
 satisfactory evidence, that a love of Pope, 
 and of brandy and water, were perfectly 
 compatible, doubt it who might. Opened 
 up by the benign influence of the alco- 
 hol, the itinerant preacher now began to 
 give Pope by the yard. Before he had 
 dealt him out sparingly — in bits and frag- 
 ments : he now gave whole pages on end, 
 to the inexpressible delight of his enter- 
 tainer, who having been induced, by the 
 rarity of the occasion — the meeting with 
 so enthusiastic an admirer of his beloved 
 bard — to take a glass or two of wine extra, 
 save as ample measure in return. 
 
 The conversation between the two 
 Popeites was thus reduced to nothing — 
 only a word or two now and then ; the 
 rest was entirely made up of quotation. 
 While Mr. Darsy and liis guest were thus 
 employed, a servant came to announce that 
 dinner was on the table. Both immediate- 
 ly rose to their feet. When they had 
 done so, Mr. Darsy took the preacher by 
 the hand, and said, in an under tone — 
 
 " Now, my dear, good fiiend, when you 
 go down stairs you will see my sister. She 
 will dine with us. A good creature as 
 ever lived — an excellent creature. But — 
 but — I am ashamed to say it. The fact is, 
 and you know it, my dear friend, that 
 
 '• • Good, as well as ill, 
 Woman's at best a contradiction still. 
 
 My sister, in short, my dear friend, has no 
 fancy for our adored bard. I can't ac- 
 
THE GOODMAN OF DRYFIELD. 
 
 543 
 
 count for it ; but so it is. Therefore, if 
 you will just be so good as say nothing about 
 him while she is present, it will be as 
 well. No quotations, you understand. 
 We'll have our revenge for this restraint 
 when she retires. We will resume the 
 subject, then, my dear sir," added Mr. 
 Darsy, slapping his guest, in a friendly 
 and jocose way, on the shoulder, as he 
 snoke. " We'll have a nicrht of it ; and 
 I'll smuggle down his works from my 
 library, and we will glance them over to- 
 gether when we've got the room to our- 
 selves. That will be a treat, eh .?" 
 
 Thus cautioned as to his conduct in the 
 presence of Mr. Darsy's sister, Mr. Clay- 
 thorn descended to the dining-room with 
 his host. Not a word — not the most dis- 
 tant allusion to Pope, escaped either of 
 the two gentlemen ; so that, whatever 
 Miss Darsy's suspicions of the case might 
 be — and she certainly looked as if she had 
 some suspicions of it — nothing transpired 
 to give her assurance of the fact. On her 
 retiring, however, the pent up sluices of 
 the Popeites were thrown open, and out 
 there rushed two impetuous streams of 
 poetry ; sometimes blending, sometimes 
 alternatinfi;, and sometimes running counter 
 to each other. Mr. Darsy was delight- 
 ed — more than delighted with his friend ; 
 for he had never, in the whole course of 
 his life, met with one who could quote his 
 favorite author with such facility and at 
 such length, as the guest whom he was 
 now entertaining ; neither had he ever 
 met with one who had so deep, so thorough 
 a reverence for the mighty moral poet. 
 
 This was altogether, in short, one of the 
 happiest nights he had ever spent in his 
 life. At its close, Mr. Darsy accompanied 
 his guest, who he insisted should remain 
 with him all night, to his bed-room, and 
 parted from him there with a very apt 
 quotation, to which his friend replied with 
 another no less felicitous, which he deliver- 
 ed in a very feeling and impressive man- 
 Der. On the following: morning — 
 
 " What keeps your reverend friend, 
 
 brother .?" said Miss Darsy, somewhat 
 sneeringly — for she had strong suspicions 
 of the stranger's being a Popeite — as she 
 sat at the breakfast-table, waiting the ap- 
 pearance of that person, before proceed- 
 ing the duties of the morning meal. 
 
 " Really, my dear, I don't know," re- 
 plied Mr. Darsy. " The poor man is 
 fatigued, I daresay ; and we sat up rather 
 late last night." 
 
 " Ay, brother, I fancy you found him 
 a very pleasant, intelligent companion," 
 said Miss Darsy, with a look and tone of 
 peculiar meaning. 
 
 What this meaning was, Mr. Darsy 
 perfectly understood. He knew that his 
 sister was at once insinuating her suspi- 
 cions of the stranger's Popeism, and driv- 
 ing at a discovery of the fact. Aware of 
 this, and by no means desirous of coming to 
 any explanation on the subject, Mr. Darsy, 
 without noticing his sister's remark, said 
 he would "just step up stairs to see what 
 was keeping Mr. Claythorn," and deliver 
 himself (but of this he said nothing) of 
 a happy quotation which had occurred to 
 him, and which he thought would form an 
 exceedingly appropriate greeting. 
 
 He entered his friend's bed-room ; there 
 was no movement. He drew aside the 
 curtains ; the bed was unoccupied. The 
 Pope-quoter had decamped. He was off; 
 and off, too, were a dozen silver spoons 
 and a small gold watch ; all of which pro- 
 perty had been unguardedly left in the 
 room in which he slept. 
 
 Here ended my good host's (Mr. Pent- 
 land's) anecdotes and sketch of the wor- 
 thy proprietor of Dryfield ; but he added, 
 he could give as much more of the same 
 kind, if I chose, as would fill half-a-dozen 
 volumes. I thanked him, and said that I 
 would rest content with what he had been 
 kind enough to give me, in the meantime ; 
 but that, if the readers of the ** Border 
 Talcs" — for which, I told him, I intended 
 these memorabilia — desired any more, I 
 should, perhaps, take the liberty of apply- 
 ing to him again. 
 
544 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE GIPSY LOVER. 
 
 " Mary, my dear," said Mrs. Blair, ap- 
 proaching her daughter's bedside early one 
 morning (it was the morning of the fair of 
 Bucklyvio in Stirlingshire, formerly a very 
 important one), "ye maun get up, and 
 gang wi' yer brother to the fair the day. 
 He's to sell the brown pony ; and ye maun 
 bring hame the siller, as he's gaun to 
 Stirling after the fliir, and winna be hame 
 for a day or twa, and there's a bill to pay 
 the morn." 
 
 Delighted with the mission, Mary in- 
 stantly arose and dressed herself; and, 
 when she had done so, broad Scotland 
 could not have produced a more lovely or 
 more captivating face and figure. Mary 
 Blair wa^s about nineteen years of age, and, 
 though not tall of stature, her form was 
 perfect in its symmetry, while her coun- 
 tenance beamed with gentleness and love. 
 Many were the suitors who sought to win 
 her heart; but " there was ane, a secret 
 ane," who stood between them and her 
 affections, and rendered all their efforts 
 fruitless. But none knew who this one 
 was ; nor did any know even that her love 
 was already disposed of. She durst not 
 avow it ; for tha favored lover was of a 
 race, with any of the individuals of which 
 it would have been reckoned foul disgrace 
 to have held communion of any kind. 
 This was not her opinion ; but it was the 
 opinion of the world, and she was so far 
 compelled to bow to it, as to keep close 
 locked up in her heart the secret of her 
 love. 
 
 Mary's mother, who was a widow, rented 
 a small farm in Stirlingshire, and was in 
 comparatively easy circumstances. She 
 held the laud on reasonable terms ; and 
 the judicious management of her only son, 
 a fine young man of about five- and-twcnty, 
 enabled her to make the most of it, and to 
 live, if not in affluence, at least in plenty. 
 
 On the occasion with which our story 
 opens, Mary was mounted on the pony 
 which it was intended should be sold ; 
 and, accompanied by her brother, who 
 walked by her side, they set out for Buck- 
 lyvie at a suitable hour in the morning. 
 The young maiden, who had never been at 
 a fair before, was in high spirits at the 
 prospect of being gratified by the sight of 
 such a scene ; every now and then play- 
 fully urging on her pony, in order to put 
 her brother to his speed, and to laugh at 
 his efforts to keep pace with her. This 
 emulation soon brought them to their des- 
 tination. On arriving at the scene of the 
 fair, the unsophisticated girl was delighted 
 with the joyous bustle and confusion which 
 it exhibited. I'he shows, the music, the 
 tents — everything pleased her, because 
 everything was new to her ; but, above 
 all was she pleased and flattered by the 
 attention shown her by the numerous ac- 
 quaintances whom she met. These she 
 encountered at every turn ; and, being a 
 universal favorite, every one insisted on 
 presenting her with a fairing^ until she 
 was literally loaded with gifts of various 
 kinds. Having remained in the crowd all 
 the forenoon, and having seen all that was 
 worth seeing, Mary was conducted by her 
 brother to the house of a friend, where he 
 left her until he should dispose of the pony, 
 and return with the proceeds. 
 
 It was some time before he came back ; 
 and, wh ~n he did, it was to say that he 
 had sold tlio animal, but would not receive 
 the price till towards the afternoon ; and 
 that his sister must, of necessity, wait till 
 then. Mar}^ was alarmed by the delay ; 
 for it would thus be dark before she 
 could reach home, and her own fears, and 
 her mother's last injunctions, warned her to 
 be home with daylight. She mentioned her 
 uneasiness on this subject to her brother. 
 
THE GIPSY LOVER. 
 
 545 
 
 " But there's no help for it, Mary," 
 was his reply ; "and, besides, you have 
 nothing to fear. Duncan M'Donald will 
 see you safely home." 
 
 On this proposal, Mary made no re- 
 mark. To the escort of M'Donald she 
 made no objection to her brother, whom 
 she knew to entertain a very different 
 opinion of him from what she did. He 
 was one of her numerous lovers, and, being 
 in good circumstances, his addresses were 
 favored by her brother. But Mary her- 
 self — over and above the reason already 
 assigned for her rejecting the suits of her 
 numerous wooers, and of M'Donald 
 amongst the rest — had an invincible aver- 
 sion to him, on account of his coarse 
 manners, and fierce, irascible temper ; but 
 her gentleness rendering her unwilling to 
 have any difference with her brother on 
 this subject, she made no objection to his 
 proposal of M'Donald accompanying her. 
 In the course of the evening, Mary's 
 brother again called, and handed over to 
 her the price of the pony, which he had 
 received ; telling her, at the same time, 
 that M'Donald would call for her at eight 
 o'clock. It was now about seven. 
 
 The horn- appointed came, but M'Do- 
 nald came not with it. Another half-hour 
 passed away, and still he did not appear. 
 Mary became restlessly and miserably 
 impatient. Her host, who was an intimate 
 friend of herself and her family, perceiving 
 her uneasiness, proposed to her to accept 
 the convoy of his nephew (a young man of 
 excellent character, who lived in the im- 
 mediate neighborhood), and to wait no 
 longer on IM'Donald. With this proposal 
 Mary thankfully closed, as she was anx- 
 ious to get home ; knowing that her mo- 
 ther would be in wretchedness till she 
 returned. She was, besides, by no means 
 displeased to escape the company of 
 M'Donald. Her host's nephew was ac- 
 cordingly sent for ; and when he came, 
 he, with great good will, undertook to see 
 her safely home. In a few minutes after, 
 the two set out, and had proceeded for the 
 
 VOL. II. ""^ 
 
 distance of about a mile or so, when they 
 heard some one shouting behind them ; 
 and, turning round, they saw a man run- 
 ning towards them at his utmost speed. 
 It was M'Donald. He was the worse of 
 liquor — considerably so — and in a state of 
 furious excitement. On coming close up to 
 Mary and her companion, the ruffian, v/ith- 
 out saying a word, instantly knocked the lat- 
 ter down with a bludgeon which he carried. 
 He then seized Mary rudely by the arm, 
 and was dragging her onwards, saying that 
 he would see her home ; but she resisted, 
 and, upbraiding him with the brutal act 
 which he had just committed, refused to 
 proceed with him. 
 
 " You won't go with me, then V he 
 said, fiercely confronting her. 
 
 " No, Duncan, I will not," replied 
 Mary ; *' you have done a cruel and un- 
 manly thing, and I will have no more of 
 your company." 
 
 " So be it," said M'Donald, turning on 
 his heel ; " but, Mary, if you do not 
 
 dearly rue this yet " saying which he 
 
 left her, and went off in the direction 
 whence he had come. 
 
 On JM 'Donald's departure, Mary ran 
 towards her wounded companion — his head 
 being severely cut — and kneeling down 
 beside him, tenderly raised him, and asked 
 if he was much hurt. The young man, 
 who had by this time recovered from the 
 stunning effects of the blow, replied that 
 he did not think he was, and instantly rose 
 to his feet. At this instant two persons 
 came up — a man and his wife. They 
 lived within a mile of Mary's mother, 
 were decent people, and well known both 
 to Mary and her companion. To these 
 people she related what had occurred. 
 The whole were then about to proceed on 
 their way, when Mary insisted that her I 
 companion should return home, saying that | 
 she was now in perfectly safe hands. The ' 
 young man for some time peremptorily 
 refused to leave her ; but, as she as pe- 
 remptorily insisted that he should — for 
 his face was streaming with blood, and he 
 
516 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS, 
 
 was otherwise greatly enfeebled by the | 
 severity of the blow he had received — he , 
 at length consented, and bidding her good j 
 nightj returned to Bucklyvie. Mary and i 
 her new escort now resumed their journey, ; 
 and proceeded without any interruption 
 until they arrived at a place called the 
 Tinker's Cove, when Mary proposed that 
 they should there strike off the road, and 
 take the short cut across the burn. 
 
 To this proposal her companions would 
 by no means agree ; alleging it to be un- 
 safe to pass by the bivouac of the tinkers 
 after nightfall — for we need hardly say that 
 the place took its name from being a favo- 
 rite resort of the gipsy race. We will not 
 say that Mary did not expect this objec- 
 tion on the part of her companions, far less 
 shall we say that she did not hope for it 
 at any rate. Mary, in truth, -both ex- 
 pected and desired the refusal of her 
 friends to take the " short cut " with her ; 
 and we need not say, therefore, that her 
 disappointment on the occasion was but 
 small. Did she then insist on taking this 
 " short cut " alone ? She did— and there 
 was a reason for it. 
 
 Shortly after parting with her compa- 
 nions — for here she did part witb them — 
 she came on the encampment of the 
 gipsies, as it lay directly in her route. It 
 was situated in a sheltered and compact 
 hollow, of which one side was formed by a 
 wall of living rock. At the moment of 
 her approach, the tinkers' fire was blazing 
 brightly ; and before it were seated two 
 persons, father and son. The former was 
 the principal or chief of the gang who just 
 now occupied the Tinkers' Cove ; none 
 of whom, however, were present at this 
 moment, excepting the two spoken of. 
 His name was Wilson ; and, notwithstand- 
 ing his profession and mode of life, which 
 might be supposed to have imparted an 
 equivocal, if not absolutely unamiable 
 expression to his countenance and man- 
 ner, his appearance was venerable in a 
 hiMi degree, and the tones of his voice at 
 once mild and cheerful. He was, in truth, 
 
 a kind-hearted old man, and one who 
 would wrong no one. His son, again, was 
 a handsome young lad, of about three- 
 and-twenty, and, though bom and bred a 
 gipsy, possessed but little, either in habit 
 or disposition, in common with the race 
 from which he sprang. His manners were 
 gentle ; his spirit generous and elevated ; 
 and his affections warm and sincere. 
 Young Wilson, in short, did not move in 
 the sphere for which nature had designed 
 him. Gipsy as he was, however, he waa 
 Mary's favored lover. The secret is out, 
 good reader — George Wilson, the tinker, 
 was the chosen, over all others, of Mary 
 Blair. Often had they sported together, 
 when they were children, on the banks of 
 the burn — for Geordie had come with his 
 father and his party to the glen with the 
 cuckoo and the green leaf for fifteen sum- 
 mers ; and the thought of him, when ab- 
 sent, was the sunshine of Mary's soul. 
 On her approach, on the occasion of which 
 we have been speaking, old Wilson, arose, 
 and, taking her kindly by the hand, said, 
 with some surprise at her appearance at 
 that late hour in so lonely a place — 
 
 " Whereaway, noo, Mary, my dear ? 
 What in a' the world has brocht you this 
 way at this time o' nicht.-" 
 
 Mary, blushing as she spoke, infonned 
 him of her case ; but said nothing of the 
 motive which had directed her route by 
 the " Tinkers' Cove." It could hardly be 
 expected that she should. There was one 
 present, however, who guessed it, as might 
 have been conjectured by his sparkling eye 
 and the blush that overspread his fine ex- 
 pressive countenance. 
 
 "Then, Geordie," said the old man, 
 addi-essing his son, " ye'll see IMary, safely 
 owre the burn — and mind the crossin, for 
 it's an ugly place in the dark." 
 
 We need not say how joyfully young 
 Wilson acceded to his father's proposal, 
 nor need we say with what satisfaction 
 Mary Blair concurred in it. 
 
 In a few minutes after, Mary and her 
 Gipsy lover set oflF, and, in somewhere 
 
THE GIPSY LOVER. 
 
 547 
 
 about a quarter of an hour, arrived at the 
 " crossiu " to \vhich the old man had so spe- 
 cially alluded. And it was ]iot without rea- 
 son that he had made such allusion, for the 
 place was, indeed, rather a dangerous one 
 in the dark — and it was so at this moment. 
 The burn, at the particular spot alluded 
 to, was crossed by two felled trees, strip- 
 ped of tiieir branches and laid parallel 
 from side to side. The depth below was 
 considerable — somewhere, perhaps, about 
 twenty feet ; and it was not the less for- 
 midable, probably, that it was almost dry, 
 beino; covered at the bottom with large 
 stones and fragments of rock, instead of 
 water. 
 
 On the side of the burn opposite that 
 on which Mary and her lover approached 
 it on the occasion of which we are speak- 
 ing, the bank rose with great abruptness 
 to a considerable height, and up this ac- 
 clivity wound the steep, narrow path which 
 conducted to and from the rude brido;e 
 already described. On reaching this 
 bridge, George took Mary by the hand, 
 and having, with great care and tender- 
 ness, conducted her safely to the opposite 
 side, he bade her good night, as she had 
 now only to ascend the path alluded to, 
 and to proceed a few hundred yards after- 
 wards, to reach her mother's house. 
 
 On parting with Mary, George recrossed 
 the burn, and was bounding away on his 
 return to the bivouac of his friends, when 
 his progress was suddenly and fearfully 
 arrested by a piercing shriek, which was 
 instantly followed by a heavy fail, as if of 
 some one precipitated into the hollow of 
 the burn. Frantic with horror — for he 
 had no doubt it was INIary who had fallen 
 — he flew wildly back to the bridge, looked 
 down into the abyss beneath, and found 
 his worst fears confirmed. There, in the 
 bottom of the ravine, amongst the stones 
 and rocks, lay the form of his beloved 
 Mary. Distracted with the horrifying 
 sight, young Wilson was in an instant by 
 the side of the unfortunate girl, and in the 
 nest her head was resting on his knee, and 
 
 her face bedewed with his tears. But 
 Mary was insensible to the sympathies of 
 her lover. All consciousness had fled. 
 Her injuries were of the most serious kind. 
 In his distraction and helplessness, young 
 Wilson called out for assistance ; and his 
 cries, though by mere chance, were heard. 
 One of his own party — a young man about 
 his own age, and who, moreover, happened 
 to be provided with a lighted lantern, being 
 at the moment in search of a stray pony — 
 was within hearing. He flew to the spot, 
 and was quickly by the side of his friend. 
 With the assistance of this person, the 
 unfortunate girl, who was still insensible, 
 was carried up to the level ground above. 
 
 " But how could she have fallen P^ said 
 young Wilson's companion, after being 
 told by the latter that he had seen her 
 safely across the bridge. ''It's not so 
 very dark, and I'm sure she knew the path 
 well. I canna understand how she should 
 have lost her footing on the path." 
 
 '' Nor I, either," replied Wilson, with 
 a mingled air of wildness and thoughtful- 
 ness. " Nor I either — nor I either," he 
 repeated, with fierce energy. Then gazing 
 steadily but silently in the face of his friend 
 for a second — his countenance, meanwhile, 
 expressive of some violent internal work- 
 ings — he burst out loudly with — " I have 
 it ! I have it, Sandy !" — which was the 
 name of his associate — " Mary's been 
 murdered — she has been thrown down, 
 and that villain M'Donald has done it ! I 
 saw him pass about half an hour since ; 
 and, just as I was parting with Mary, I 
 heard a rustling amongst the branches 
 above us. It must have been he. Oh, 
 but I will have sweet revenge ! Dearly 
 shall the villain rue this." And, without 
 saying more, he bounded alongst the 
 bridge, ascended the path on the opposite 
 side with the speed of a chamois, and there, 
 hidden amongst the brushwood, did indeed 
 find M'Donald, who, by the fatality which 
 so frequently attends the commission of 
 crime, still lingered on the scene of his 
 guilt, although he might have escaped, at 
 
648 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 least for the time. But it is supposed 
 that he had desired to return by the way 
 which he had come ; and that he was wait- 
 ing for the disappearance of young Wilson, 
 whose position at the bridge prevented 
 him. 
 
 Be this as it may, in the place described 
 the latter found him, when, springing on 
 him with the ferocity of a tiger, he accused 
 him of having thrown Mary from the 
 height. The ruffian in his drunkenness 
 admitted the fact — with some confused 
 qualification about a want of intention to 
 injure her. 
 
 " Unintentionally or not, you ruffian, 
 you have murdered her, and dearly shall 
 you pay for it !" shouted Wilson, fiercely ; 
 and, in the next instant, he dashed him to 
 the earth — for young Wilson was an un- 
 commonly powerful man — and, seizing him 
 by the throat, would have strangled him 
 on the spot. But another thought sud- 
 denly struck him. He loosened his hold, 
 and, seizing M 'Donald (who was now al- 
 most wholl}'' incapable of resistance, from 
 the process of sufibcation he had - under- 
 gone) by one of his legs, he dragged him 
 down the path to the bridge. On arriving 
 there with him, Wilson called out, in a 
 voice hoarse with agitation and excitement, 
 to his friend to bring him the cord which 
 he carried. It was to halter the pony, of 
 
 which the latter had been in quest. The 
 cord was brought. Wilton, quick as 
 thought, took a turn of it round the logs 
 which formed the bridge, made a running 
 noose at the other end, forced the latter 
 over the head of his miserable victim, and 
 precipitating him from the bridge, exhibit- 
 ed him suspended from it by the neck, and 
 almost immediately over the identical spot 
 where Mary had fallen. 
 
 The whole was the work of but a very 
 few minutes. When the tragedy was 
 completed, Wilson and his friend carried 
 Mary home. She was still breathing, but 
 still insensible. On the foUowinor morn- 
 
 o 
 
 ing she expired ; but, long ere this, the 
 fire at the gipsy encampment at the Tin- 
 kers' Cove was quenched, their canvas 
 tents struck, and the inhabitants of those 
 tents many miles away ; and neither the 
 cuckoo nor the green leaf ever again 
 brought George Wilson or any of his 
 party back to the verdant holms of Gart- 
 navaran. 
 
 When the morning sun arose, it shone 
 on the lifeless body of Macdonald, still 
 suspended in the air ; and great was the 
 horror of the neighborhood at the dreadful 
 spectacle ; but, when the truth came to be 
 known, all allowed that it was a just and 
 well-merited retribution. 
 
 -••♦♦♦■^ 
 
 THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY. 
 
 "Were I to lose sight of my native hills, my heart would sink, and my arm would wither like fern 
 i' the winter blast." — Rob Roy. 
 
 " And so, my dear lads, you wish me to 
 relate my passage with the Cateraus of 
 Lochloy .^" said General Dangerfield. 
 
 " Do, father, you will so oblige me," 
 replied the younger of his two sons. 
 
 " Well, then," continued the General, 
 
 laying his hand upon the boy's head, " you 
 shall have it ; but, remember, no inter- 
 ruption ; I must tell my story my own 
 way." 
 
 "Agreed!" replied his eldest son — 
 Edmund, a fine youth of sixteen. 
 
THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY. 
 
 549 
 
 " Well — to begin at the beginning — I 
 am a native of Scotland — born on the 
 Borders — of a respectable family, well 
 known there — the Jar dines of the Ilk. I 
 entered the armv young, and continued 
 there the best part of my days. When 
 quartered in England, I became acquainted 
 with your angel mother ; and upon her 
 marriage with me, some short time after- 
 wards, I was compelled by her father to 
 assume her name, in order that the family 
 estates might still be inherited by a Dan- 
 gerfield. 
 
 " I was on service during that lament- 
 able rebellion in which so much blood was 
 poured out in an abortive attempt to re- 
 store a doomed race to their kingly pos- 
 sessions. I fought at Culloden ; and well 
 remember, and with horror witnessed, the 
 cruelties that followed the victory. The 
 Saxons, as we were called, were, in con- 
 sequence, execrated ; and the Highlanders 
 burned with a fierce desire to aveng-e their 
 
 o 
 
 slaughtered friends and kinsmen. So 
 circumstanced, it is almost unnecessary to 
 remark that the Government troops were 
 peculiarly obnoxious ; and it was conse- 
 quently very dangerous for them to wander 
 to any distance from their respective sta- 
 tions ; as, in many instances, where they 
 had been so foolhardy as to disregard the 
 strict injunctions on the subject, they 
 never returned to tell the tale. 
 
 " I had leave of absence for a short 
 time ; and I therefore quitted my quarters, 
 which were at Inverness, in order to spend 
 my Christmas with my relations in Kelso 
 — for I was not then married. As is 
 usual, where friends are happy and com- 
 fortable, they were not fond of separating 
 too soon, and I was loath to leave the hos- 
 pitable board of my entertainers ; so I 
 lingered as long as I could, and thus made 
 it a matter of necessity to proceed north- 
 wards with the utmost despatch. It is a 
 long way between Kelso and Inverness ; 
 and I had to proceed on horseback accom- 
 panied by a single servant. We got on 
 very well till we reached Glasgow, after 
 
 which the journey was both tedious and 
 vexatious. 
 
 " On the second day, after quitting the 
 western metropolis, there came on a great 
 fall of snow, partially obstructing the 
 roads, which, in those days, were not in 
 the very best state, even in good weather ; 
 and, after pursuing, apparently, the proper 
 route for at least a couple of hours, I found 
 that we had lost our way — no very agree- 
 able discovery especially towards the close 
 of day. However, there is nothing like 
 putting the best face on a thing when you 
 cannot help it, so we boldly pushed on in 
 the vain hope of at last getting into the 
 right path. Vain it assuredly was ; for, 
 after wandering about till it became dark, 
 we made the important discovery that we 
 were just as far ofi" as ever from escaping 
 from our difficulties. 
 
 " ' Is not yon a light, sir .?' exclaimed 
 my servant. ' See ! it is very high up.' 
 
 " I looked up, and, certainly, there was 
 a light ; but from what it proceeded I 
 could not conjecture. It could hardly be 
 from a house, as it was too much elevated. 
 I desired my servant to follow, and we 
 made for the mysterious place, which was, 
 with some difficulty, reached ; and where, 
 to our infinite dismay, in place of finding 
 ourselves in the vicinity of a house, we 
 discovered that we were at the foot of a 
 tremendous precipice, and the light that 
 had guided us was still glimmering at an 
 apparently inaccessible height above our 
 heads. 
 
 " In this state of desperation, we hal- 
 looed, and made as much noise as possible, 
 and were speedily answered by a human 
 voice, inquiring why we made such a dis- 
 turbance, and what we wanted. I an- 
 swered — 
 
 " ' Shelter for the night, and food, for 
 we are nearly dead from hunger.' 
 
 " To this no reply was made for a few 
 moments, when a voice again answered — 
 
 " ' Remain where you are, and I will 
 descend and remove you from this place 
 of danger.' 
 
550 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 '-• A man then descended from the 
 rocks, and desired us to follow him, which 
 we did, with some reluctance — more espe- 
 cially as we were compelled to leave our 
 horses below. 
 
 " ' Never mind the cattle ; they will be 
 taken good care of,' said our conductor, 
 laying especial emphasis on the word 
 ' good.' 
 
 " I must confess I did not feel by any 
 means comfortable. But what was to be 
 done } Starvation stared us in the face, 
 and the danger of perishing by cold, or by 
 falling into some of the deep ravines that 
 lay about me, was but too probable ; so I 
 mustered up all my courage, and followed 
 my unknown guide, who led me, by a very 
 precipitous and dangerous path, to a large 
 cavity in the centre of the rock. My 
 servant came last ; and, when we reached 
 the place of our destination, we beheld a 
 vast pile of faggots lighted up in the middle 
 of a prodigious vacuity. "The warmth, as 
 you may readily suppose, was very grate- 
 ful to two travellers benumbed by cold ; 
 and, while we were standing by the fire, 
 the guide suddenly disappeared, but re- 
 turned, some few minutes afterwards, from 
 some concealed part of the subterranean 
 habitation, with above fifty armed men. 
 
 " At such a very unexpected, not to 
 say disagreeable, spectacle, in circumstan- 
 ces otherwise sufiiciently alarming, both 
 myself and servant felt no small degree of 
 fear. Our trepidation was observed ; and 
 one of the number, who seemed to have 
 the command of the rest of the band, ad- 
 dressed me to the following purport : — 
 
 " ' You can be at no loss to conjecture 
 who we are, and what our ordinary occu- 
 pation is ; but you have nothing to fear ; 
 for, though we live by what is called vio- 
 lence, wo are not destitute of humanity. 
 Our depredations are never marked by 
 cruelty, and seldom by blood ; and those 
 whom necessity has thrown on our care 
 have never either been treated with bar- 
 barity or sufi"ered to want. We extort 
 only a little from those who are able to 
 
 spare it, and rather augment than diminish 
 the property of the poor. We know, 
 alas ! too well, what the consequences 
 would be were we to fall into the hands of 
 the rich and powerful ; but we are resigned 
 to our fate. We can only die once, and 
 our enemies can inflict no greater ven- 
 geance upon us. Miserable we may be ; 
 but we have a fellow-feeling for sufferers, 
 and never take advantage of distress : in 
 truth, it is from no sordid love of gain, nor 
 is it to pander to vicious habits or immo- 
 ral purposes, that we live in this manner. 
 It is because we have no other mode of 
 support ; for, after the cruelties that have 
 been perpetrated upon their disarmed op- 
 ponents, it were in vain to expect assist- 
 ance or rehef at the hands of our Hano- 
 verian oppressors. 
 
 " ' You see our quarters, and shall have 
 every accommodation they can afford you ; 
 and, if you can trust us, who have neither 
 inclination nor reason to deceive you, we 
 give you a hearty welcome to these ada- 
 mantine abodes, and that with the most 
 perfect sincerity. Our fare is homely but 
 wholesome ; and our beds, though coarse, 
 are clean. Nor be under any concern for 
 your horses ; they too shall share om* pro- 
 tection and hospitality . We have no 
 hay ; but they shall not want. Stables 
 we have none ; but can shelter them, for 
 one night at least, from the inclemency of 
 the weather.' 
 
 " This address revived our courage, 
 which was not a little augmented upon 
 being handed a bicker of whisky — moun- 
 tain dew of the most delicious description ; 
 at least I thought so then, and have never 
 changed my opinion since. Talk of the 
 wines of Spain, or of France, or the 
 Rhine, I never felt from them half the 
 delight I experienced in quaffing the nec- 
 tar of the Gael. When we had finished, a 
 supper was laid before us which might 
 have provoked the appetite of an English 
 alderman, and that is saying a good deal. 
 We had blackcock and ptarmigan broiled, 
 or, as it is called in Scotland, brandered ; 
 
THE CATERAN OP LOCHLOY. 
 
 551 
 
 fine black-faced Highland mutton done to 
 a turn in the live ashes ; and a stew of 
 snipes and wild duck, the aroma of which 
 was perfectly ambrosial. I did ample jus- 
 tice to the good cheer, and ate with as 
 much coolness and self possession as if 1 
 had been seated in Dolly's chop-house, in 
 place of an apparently interminable cave 
 surrounded by caterans ; for so the High- 
 land banditti are termed. 
 
 " After having satisfied my craving ap- 
 petite, in which example I had a worthy 
 imitator in the person of my servant, rest 
 was the next thing of which both of us 
 stood in need. My generous host then led 
 me to an inner apartment in the cave, 
 ■which seemed at once to be the treasury 
 and the magazine. There two sackfuls of 
 heather were, by his orders, brought in 
 and put on end, with the flower upper- 
 most. Then a rope was fastened about 
 the whole to keep it together, and on the 
 top of each was placed a double blanket. 
 On this simple contrivance, which formed 
 an exquisitely soft and delicious couch, 
 we laid ourselves down. 
 
 " I had some notes of value about me, 
 and above twenty guineas in gold, besides 
 a very handsome gold watch, and other 
 trinkets of no inconsiderable value ; but, 
 as I had given them up for lost, 1 made no 
 attempt to secrete any of them. My host, 
 apparently divining my suspicions, insisted 
 upon mounting guard over us — a proposal 
 which I strenuously opposed ; but he told 
 me plainly that, unless he kept by me, he 
 would not answer for the conduct of his 
 companions. Against this there was no 
 appeal ; and he remained beside us, on the 
 bare rock, all the night. 
 
 " In the morning, we found ourselves 
 alone with this sinsfular beinn;. Everythinix 
 remained as it had been the preceding 
 evening, with this, to us, very pleasant 
 exception, that the band of caterans was 
 nowhere to be seen. Another fire of wood 
 was speedily kindled ; and, as our host 
 told us that, before we could reach any 
 place of refreshment, we had to go twenty 
 
 miles and a bittick — which, being inter- 
 preted, means somewhere about five miles 
 more — we took the precaution to lay in a 
 good stock of cakes, butter, and cheese, 
 which we washed down with a moderate 
 quantity of the nectar of the night pre- 
 ceding. 
 
 " Our repast over, we descended the 
 circuitous path which led from the cavern, 
 and which one, uninitiated, mip-ht have 
 searched for in vain ; and, at the bottom, 
 found a lad or gilly holding our horses, 
 which had been well fed, and were in fine 
 spirits. Our host then declared his in- 
 tention of putting us upon the right track, 
 otherwise, he said, we were sure of losing 
 our way. I desired my servant to dis- 
 mount and follow us on foot ; but this the 
 stranger refused to allow, assigning as a 
 reason, that he preferred walking, and 
 could, without the slightest difficulty, keep 
 up with the horses. In this way, there- 
 fore, we proceeded nearly three miles ; 
 and, it was evident that, but for his friend- 
 ly assistance, the chances of getting out 
 of our difficulties w^ould have been very 
 problematical. At last, he stopped, and 
 said — 
 
 " ' Pursue that path for half a mile far- 
 ther, and you will enter upon the great 
 road, after which you can have no difficulty 
 in journeying to the place of your destina- 
 tion.' 
 
 " I was quite overpowered with this 
 kindness, and felt reluctant to part with 
 my new friend without, at least, showing 
 how much I appreciated his services. 
 
 " ' Sir,' said I, ' I am deeply afi"ected by 
 the whole of your conduct towards me and 
 my servant. 1 can only hope that, some 
 day or other, I may have it in my power 
 to serve you. I have been treated like a 
 prince, when I expected, if not to have my 
 throat cut — which I once thought was 
 inevitable — at least, to have been robbed 
 of everything about me. At present I can 
 only ofier you this small remuneration, 
 which 1 trust you will accept. I am only 
 sorry that it is not more. As I said this, 
 
552 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 tunes compelled me to conceal my name 
 and family, and I enlisted as a private 
 soldier. iMy conduct in the army attracted 
 the attention of my superiors ; but, I had 
 have seen the way in which 1 and my I no interest to rise higher than a halbert, 
 companions live, and you may easily guess ! and was discharged with the regiment in 
 
 I drew forth my purse with the intention 
 of giving him all the gold I had about me, 
 
 but he stayed my hand. 
 
 Sir I' exclaimed the unknown, ' 
 
 you 
 
 that to us gold can be no object. I thank 
 you for the free and liberal way in which 
 it was proffered ; but I most respectfully 
 beg to decline accepting it. In serving 
 you, I merely followed a j^recept, which I 
 ever — though a cateran — keep in view, to 
 do to others as I would be done by myself. 
 You were in distress, and I relieved you ; 
 there was no merit in doing what I knew 
 was merely my duty ; and Ranald More 
 will take no reward for having done that 
 which his heart told him it was right to 
 do.' 
 
 " * Heavens ." I cried, ' are you Ranald 
 More ?^ 
 
 " ' I am .?' 
 
 " ' Why,' I rejoined, ' your name is a 
 terror to all the country round.' 
 
 " ' I know it ; but what care 1 1 Let 
 the bloodhounds take me if they can. ' 
 
 "• ' Are you aware that a reward is offer- 
 ed for your apprehension .^' 
 
 ^"Perfectly.' 
 
 " ' Why, then, should you trust yourself 
 alone with two armed men .^' 
 
 " To show that he was perfectly re- 
 gardless of fear, he merely pointed to his 
 claymore, and I must confess that I should 
 not have been anxious for a single combat, 
 and, even with the assistance of my ser- 
 vant, 1 am not quite sure that we might 
 not have come off second best. 
 
 " ' But,' continued the cateran, ' you 
 are a gentleman and a man of honor. My 
 secret is safe with you. Bid your servant 
 ride on a few paces.' I gave the necessary 
 order; and, when we were alone, the ca- 
 teran proceeded to narrate to me the 
 following particulars of his life : — 
 
 " ' I was born in the hio-her ranks of 
 society ; but circumstances, which I need 
 not recapitulate, reduced me to the hum- 
 ble condition of a peasant. Early misfor- 
 
 which I served. When Prince Charles 
 landed on his native shores, I refused to 
 join him, as I considered myself in a man- 
 ner bound, by my former services, to his 
 opponent. I took, therefore, no further 
 interest in this civil broil than to give my 
 humble assistance to many of those perse- 
 cuted men whom the bloody mandates of 
 the Duke of Cumberland had marked out 
 for destruction. In this way I have gra- 
 dually collected around me a band of 
 gallant fellows, who are ready to follow 
 me on any enterprise, however desperate. 
 It was not choice but necessity that com- 
 pelled me to my present way of life. Some 
 day or other I shall, in all human proba- 
 bility, be taken, and made an example of, 
 to deter others from following the like 
 courses. All I ask, when you hear of my 
 death — in whatever way that may happen 
 — that you will not forget you owed your 
 life to him who never took one but in the 
 cause of his country, when he fought for 
 his king, and exposed his own. Farewell.' 
 
 " Then pressing my proffered hand in 
 his, he turned away ; and, in a few minutes, 
 the Highland Cateran was out of sight." 
 
 " Did you never see him again, father !" 
 inquired Edmund. 
 
 " I did ; but in circumstances extremely 
 painful ; although, to the last interview I 
 had with him, I owe that portion of hap- 
 piness with which Providence was gra- 
 ciously pleased to bless me." 
 
 "Indeed ! — O father, do continue your 
 story. 
 
 " Well, Edmund, have patience, and 
 you shall hear all. Time hurried on im- 
 perceptibly ; and, in a couple of years 
 afterwards, I found myself raised to the 
 rank of a captain. The regiment had been 
 ordered to Ireland, where it remained for 
 about a year ; but the Highlands of Scot- 
 
THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY. 
 
 553 
 
 land not being in a very settled state, it 
 ■was ordered to that kingdom ; and, in the 
 month of January, 1748, I found myself 
 once more in my old quarters ; a circum- 
 stance far from displeasing, as I had many 
 friends there anxious to make me com- 
 fortable. 
 
 " The severity of Government had by 
 this time considerably relaxed ; and as all 
 fears of any new rebellion were at an end, 
 an anxious endeavor was made to reduce 
 the restless Highlanders to some sort of 
 order, and put down the straggling bands 
 of caterans that disturbed the tranquillity 
 of the country, and kept the proprietors in 
 a perpetual state of anxiety, by lifting, as 
 it was called, their cattle, and other pre- 
 datory acts. 
 
 " Upon inquiring after my old friend, 
 Ranald, I was told he had not been heard 
 offer a long time, and that it was generally 
 supposed he had been killed in some of 
 his maurading expeditions. 
 
 " One individual seemed to be pecu- 
 liarly obnoxious to these worthies, and his 
 cattle had not only been repeatedly car- 
 ried off, but his granaries had been de- 
 spoiled. He had bought some of the for- 
 feited estates at small value, and having 
 the misfortune — for so it was reckoned 
 amongst the proud Highlanders, whose 
 pedigrees were generally as long as their 
 purses were short — to be a parvenu^ his 
 father bavins; been a grocer in the Luck- 
 enbooths of Edinburgh, he experienced 
 no mercy from the caterans, and little 
 sympathy from the gentry in his vicinity, 
 who laughed at his misfortunes. To crown 
 all, he had been a commissary in the army 
 of the Duke of Cumberland ; and, though 
 neither a bad man nor a hard landlord, 
 still his original connexion with the 
 bloody Duke was a sin not to be forgiven, 
 and hence the reason of his peculiar per- 
 secution. 
 
 " Irritated by a series of provoking out- 
 rages, Peter Penny, Esq., of Glenbodle, 
 appealed to our commander ; and, as he 
 volunteered to guide a small detachment 
 
 to the place where he had good reason to 
 believe his tormentors were concealed, 
 his appeal was listened to ; and, under the 
 charge of one of our lieutenants, a party 
 of some twenty or thirty soldiers proceed- 
 ed to capture the caterans. As resistance 
 was anticipated, they were well armed, 
 and every precaution was adopted to pre- 
 vent surprise by ambush. 
 
 " Of all this I thouo-ht nothino:. Such 
 occurrences were common ; and, usually, 
 the objects were accomplished with no 
 very great difficulty. In this case, the 
 result was different ; and, although the de- 
 tachment was successful, and it was only 
 so at a great expenditure of life ; for the 
 caterans gave battle, and were eventually 
 subdued, after killing five of the King's 
 troops, and severely wounding the com- 
 mander. The laird himself escaped free ; 
 for, holding the truth of the adage, that 
 the better part of valor is discretion, he 
 prudently kept in the rear, and thus ran 
 no other risk than a chance shot. Poor 
 fellow, he assured me — and I believe he 
 spoke with perfect sincerity — that, had he 
 imagined so much blood was to be shed 
 on his account, he had much rather the 
 caterans had stolen every animal on his 
 estate, and carried off its entire pro- 
 duce. 
 
 " The defence had been well-ordered ; 
 and it required little observation to see 
 that the chief of the caterans was skilled 
 in military tactics. He fought with in- 
 finite bravery, and it was not until a great 
 proportion of his band was either killed or 
 wounded that his capture was effected ; 
 and even this would have been doubtful, 
 had he not been weakened by loss of blood. 
 He was, however, brought to Inverness, 
 with one or two of his confederates, who 
 had also been severely wounded. The 
 rest retreated safely to the fastnesses of the 
 mountains. 
 
 " The day following, I was somewhat 
 surprised by an intimation, that one of the 
 captives was desirous of seeing me. I 
 proceeded to the prison, when I found a 
 
554 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 man lying on a heap of straw, evidently j 
 in a very exhausted state. j 
 
 " ' This is kind, Captain Jardine, very 
 kind,' he exclaimed. Then, after pausing ! 
 a minute, he proceeded, whilst a faint t 
 smile passed over his face — * When we i 
 last met it was in other circumstances.' " 
 
 '* ' Gracious Providence !' I answered, 
 * can it be — do I see Ranald More r' 
 
 " ' You see all that remains of him — a 
 few short hours, and I shall be beyond the 
 reach of earthly foes. I had once hoped 
 that better days would have come ; but 
 they came not. I sought pardon, but it 
 was refused — driven back to my old 
 courses, I am about to pay the penalty of 
 my sins. 
 
 " I endeavored to reassure him ; for, in 
 truth, I felt a sincere esteem for him, and. 
 personally, knew his honorable principles, 
 and deeply regretted that so noble a fel- 
 low should have been thrown away. I got 
 the best medical advice, procured a com- 
 fortable bed, and everything that might 
 tend to alleviate his sufferings during the 
 brief remainder of his days. 
 
 " He was gratified by my attentions — 
 ' One thing consoles me,' he said — ' 1 
 shall not die the death of a felon. Your 
 soldiers have spared me that disgrace.' 
 
 " ' Do not despond,' I rejoined ; ' whilst 
 there is life there is hope, — and' 
 
 " Here he interrupted me with — 
 
 " ' No — no — no. I would not live if I 
 could ; I am weary, and need rest in my 
 grave. Captain,' he continued, ' you 
 have dealt with me kindly and consider- 
 ately ; would you make me your debtor 
 still farther ? 1 have one request to make, 
 which, as it does not compromise you in 
 the smallest degree, you will probably 
 grant, it is to convey this ring to the 
 only female in this world for whom I feel 
 regard ; iind tell her, that the being she 
 cherished when all others neglected him, 
 died blessing her.' 
 
 " I assured him I would obey his com- 
 mands, and that the ring should be per- 
 sonally delivered. 
 
 '' Ranald, then, as soon as cessation 
 from pain would allow him, disclosed his 
 history, which was brief but painful. The 
 son of a gentleman of an ancient family in 
 Northumberland, proud of his descent and 
 large possessions, he had formed an at- 
 tachment to one of the bondagers on his 
 father's estate ; and, in a luckless hour, 
 crossed the Borders, and was united to 
 her at Lamberton — the Gretna Green of 
 that part of the country. The result was 
 the ordinary one — he was disinherited, and 
 cast off by his father ; and his wife, not 
 matching with one of her own rank, could 
 not put up with her husband's ways, or 
 reconcile herself to those habits of pro- 
 priety which were essential to her new 
 station in society. Unhappiness followed 
 — poverty made him fretful and impa- 
 tient ; although well-educated, he would 
 turn his attentions to no useful purpose, 
 and, in a fit of desperation, he enlisted. 
 During his banishment from home, he saw 
 none of his relatives excepting his niece, 
 then a girl of fourteen, who loved her un- 
 cle, and used, by stealth, to bring to his 
 humble dwelling such articles as she 
 thought he might fancy ; and endeavored, 
 so far as was in her power, to soften the 
 severity of his situation.' 
 
 " The uncle's unexpected departure did 
 not prevent the niece showing similar at- 
 tentions to the wife ; but these were soon 
 terminated by the demise of the latter, 
 who died with the infant, in her accouche- 
 ment. For several years after this, no- 
 thing was heard of Ranald ; but the anger 
 of his father continued unabated. 
 
 " Quitting the army, as I formerly men- 
 tioned, he joined the caterans ; and after 
 our interview, determined to make an ef- 
 fort to obtain paternal forgiveness. He 
 left his retreat ; and one evening present- 
 ed himself suddenly before his father, who 
 was residing at the family seat. He threw 
 himself on his knees and asked pardon. 
 
 " ^ Go,' said his father. * Degenerate 
 son, disgrace not, by your presence, the 
 halls of your ancestors. In vain you sup- 
 
THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY. 
 
 555 
 
 plicate — in vain you attempt to move me 
 from my fixed purposes by your assumed 
 penitence.' 
 
 '' Have you no pity for your own off- 
 spring — for a being who, but for one un- 
 happy act, never caused you a moment's 
 pain — who has ever venerated and obeyed 
 you ?' 
 
 " No answer was returned. 
 ^' ^ Say you forgive me — I seek no 
 more ; and I will leave you never to re- 
 turn, until my future acts have shown that 
 I am not entirely unworthy of the proud 
 race from whence I have sprung.' 
 
 '^ The old man was silent. 
 
 " ' For years a father's malison has em- 
 bittered my life, and rendered me reckless 
 of all consequences. Your pardon will 
 restore me to myself; and can you refuse 
 to grant it .^" 
 
 " Still no response. 
 
 " Mf not for one so unworthy as the 
 miserable wretch before you, at least on 
 her account who gave me birth. Say you 
 forgive mo.' 
 
 " 'Never.' 
 
 *' ' Father, we meet for the last time ; 
 one word would have restored your son to 
 happiness, and you refuse it. Farewell 
 for ever !' 
 
 " At this moment the door opened, and 
 a beautiful girl of twenty rushed in, and 
 threw herself into the old man's arms. 
 
 " ' Oh, sir, do not part in anger with 
 your son ; you are so good, so kind. I 
 am sure you will resto-re him to your favor.' 
 
 " He gently disengaged her from liis 
 embrace. 
 
 " ' Emily,' said he, 'you are a good 
 girl ; and on any other subject you might 
 be sure I would listen to your wishes ; but 
 on this point, I am immovable ; and as 
 Reginald deliberately dissolved the tie be- 
 tween father and son, 1 no longer recomise 
 him as my child.' 
 
 " Saying this, he left the room. 
 
 " Emily was sadly overcome by this 
 unexpected repulse. She knew her grand- 
 father's inflexibility, but imagined that the 
 
 lapse of time would have softened his re- 
 sentment. Her father — the heir apparent 
 — was then on the Continent ; and it was 
 doubtful how far even his influence would 
 produce any change on the unnatural an- 
 ger of his incensed parent. 
 
 " ' Dear uncle, you know not how deep- 
 ly I grieve at this unkind reception. Of- 
 ten have I thought on you during your 
 tedious absence, and longed to see you 
 again ; and now when my wish is gratified, 
 I have no home here to offer you ; but we 
 must not part — time yet may make all 
 right ; and if you would only take up your 
 abode near us, I would do everything to 
 save you ; and when my father returns, 
 we will unite our entreaties to obtain your 
 pardon.^ 
 
 " ' Sweet girl !' replied Ranald, ' I 
 duly appreciate your kindness ; but it is 
 vain to contend against fate, and here I 
 cannot — will not stay.' 
 
 " The conversation was interrupted by 
 the entrance of a footman, who, with 
 some confusion and hesitation, intimated 
 that his master wished the strange gentle- 
 man would make his visit as short as pos- 
 sible. Having delivered this message, he 
 withdrew. 
 
 " ' Emily, farewell ! I have ever loved 
 you ; and your kindness in this hour of 
 trial shows my love was not misplaced.' 
 
 " ' Do not leave me, uncle ; better days 
 will come.' 
 
 " ' It is vain to urge my stay ; my fa- 
 ther shall be obeyed. Once more, fare- 
 well !' 
 
 " His niece found his resolution im- 
 movable. She entreated him to take her 
 purse ; this he refused. She then placed 
 on his finger a ring ; it was the fatal one 
 — the cause of all his misery. The sight 
 of it overcame him. He wept bitterly. 
 Clasping his niece to his arms, he said, in 
 faltering accents — 
 
 " ' Beloved girl ! this fatal testimonial 
 shall part from me only with death ; and, 
 when you see it again, be assured that all 
 my earthly cares are over.' 
 
556 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " He then quitted the home of his fore- 
 fathers, never again to return. After 
 wandering about for months, necessity 
 drove him back upon his ohi companions. 
 But he had lost his energy ; and it was 
 not until th-3 attack upon the caterans 
 that he ao-ain became the Ranald More of 
 
 o 
 
 olden times. 
 
 " The kindness and affection of his niece 
 made a deep impression on Ranald's mind ; 
 and his chief anxiety now was to make 
 her acquainted with his fate, and to let her 
 know that he died a repentant man, in the 
 hope of forgiveness in ' another and a bet- 
 ter world.' 
 
 " The night before he expired, I sat be- 
 side him, Ranald was composed. He 
 said — 
 
 " * Often, very often, kind friend, have 
 I meditated, after my last repulse, putting 
 an end to my existence ; but religion 
 came to my aid, and I resisted manfully 
 the temptings of the fiend. Resignation 
 to the Divine will, under every disappoint- 
 ment and affliction, is a duty we all owe 
 to our great Creator, and his precept of 
 my dear mother was too deeply implanted 
 in my mind ever to be entirely eradicated. 
 Forgiveness of our enemies she also incul- 
 cated ; and I can say, with perfect sinceri- 
 ty, that I die in peace with a,ll man- 
 kind.' 
 
 " ' Even your father .'' I inquired. 
 
 " ^ Yes ; even that cruel parent, through 
 whose obduracy I am now a degraded 
 felon, is forgiven by me. But no more of 
 this. When you see Emily, give her my 
 blessing. Tell her that her dying uncle 
 had her always in his thoughts ; and that, 
 in his last moments, he prayed for her 
 prosperity and happiness.' 
 
 " As he was evidently much exhausted, 
 I entreated him not to fatigue himself by 
 farther conversation. The clergyman ar- 
 riving, I took my leave, and returned in 
 the morning. He was still sensible : and 
 
 the man who had sat up with him men- 
 tioned that he had been very quiet all 
 night, though he apparently slept very 
 little. When I approached the bedside, 
 he recognised me ; and, with extreme dif- 
 ficulty, articulated — 
 
 '^ ' Remember !' 
 
 *^ I assured him that his request should 
 be implicitly complied with. His last 
 words were 'Bless you!' Raising him- 
 self, he placed his wife's marriage ring on 
 my finger, pressed my hand feebly, and, 
 overcome by the exertion, fell back on his 
 pillow ; a gentle slumber seemed gradual- 
 ly to come over him, from which he never 
 awoke. 
 
 ^^ As he was only known as Ranald 
 More, the secret of his birth and rank 
 was carefully preserved by me ; my ad- 
 venture with him of former years was 
 generally known, and my anxiety about 
 him, and my following his body to the 
 grave, created no manner of surprise. 
 His companions were tried, convicted, and 
 executed. The death of their leader, and 
 the capital punishment inflicted on his fol- 
 lowers, had a wholesome effect in that dis- 
 trict, and ' lifting' of cattle, from that 
 time, became, at least there, somewhat 
 uncommon. 
 
 " Resolved to redeem my pledge, I pro- 
 cured leave of absence, and journeyed to 
 Northumberland, where 1 found the family 
 in mournino; for the old irentleman, who 
 had died, strange to say, about a week be- 
 fore his son. The delivery of the ring at 
 once announced the cause of my visit, and 
 my attentions to the unhappy donor were 
 repaid by the extreme kindness of his re- 
 latives. Her brother, Edmund, thought 
 he could never do too much for me ; and 
 the kind-hearted and beautiful niece of 
 
 the ill-fated Ranald became" (Here 
 
 he paused.) 
 
 " What, father .-" inquired Edmund. 
 
 " Your Mother." 
 
ADVENTURES OP LAUNCELOT ERRINGTON. 
 
 557 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTON 
 AND HIS NEPHEW MARK: 
 
 A TALE OF LINDISFERNE. ' 
 
 Every person in Islandshire has heard of 
 the adventures of bold Launcelot Errins;- 
 ton and his nephew Mark. They were 
 both seamen. Launcelot was skipper and 
 owner of a small coasting brig, and his 
 nephew was his mate. They were related 
 to the Erringtons of Beaufront, an ancient 
 Northumbrian family, remarkable for its 
 devotion to the house of Stuart. It was 
 in the October of 1715 that Launcelot ran 
 his brig into Holy Island roads, and cast 
 anchor about midway between the castle 
 and the abbey. Every person on the 
 island knew Launcelot ; for he often paid 
 it a visit, and especially on returning from 
 a trip across " the herring pond ;" on 
 which occasions he never failed to lighten 
 the hearts of the fishermen, by dealing out 
 to them a cargo of " the real genuine 
 moonlight," or, in less classic phrase, 
 brandy and Geneva. But, in the particu- 
 lar instance referred to, his vessel was 
 light, and apparently had only ballast on 
 board to keep her in sailing trim. The 
 islanders were therefore disappointed, and 
 they wondered what had brought him into 
 their harbor then,, there being no wind or 
 appearance of weather that need cause 
 him to seek shelter ; and he being a bold, 
 active fellow, and owner of his own ves- 
 sel withal, it was impossible that he could 
 have put in (as the manner of some is) 
 merely to skulk for a day or two. But 
 the object of Launcelot 's putting into the 
 island will appear. 
 
 " Boy !" cried he, to an urchin who re- 
 sembled a water-imp, and who was mop- 
 ping the deck near the top of the cabin 
 Btairs, "go to the forecastle, and tell my 
 
 nevy, Mark, that I want him ; and don't 
 you be after coming back mopping there, 
 unless I send for you. You hear that .?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," replied the boy. 
 
 In less than a minute, Mark Errington, 
 a tall, powerful, and fine-looking young 
 seaman, entered the cabin. 
 
 " Sit down, Mark, my lad," said his 
 uncle — and Mark sat down. " I say, 
 nevy," added Launcelot, " I'll bet you're 
 wondering what has caused me to run the 
 brig in here, when you expected I was to 
 go right across to Hamburgh." 
 
 " Why, I do think it a little strange, 
 uncle," said the nephew ; " but you know 
 it is your business and not mine. The 
 ship is your own, and you can do as you 
 like, I suppose." 
 
 " Well said, Mark, my boy," replied 
 Launcelot ; " you speak like a fellow that 
 has some sense aboard ; and I tell you 
 what, if you go on as you have done, the 
 brig shall be yours one o' these days." 
 
 " Don't talk of that uncle," said the 
 youth ; "I am very well as I am, and 
 wouldn't think myself better by you hurt- 
 ing yourself." 
 
 '' Hurting myself !" repeated Launce- 
 lot; " d'ye think I couldn't live as well as 
 I do now, though the brig were at Davy 
 Jones to-morrow .- Don't you suppose 
 but that I can leave her to you when I 
 like, and something worth more than her 
 when I die, too. I have no family of my 
 own, and you are my brother's son, Mark ; 
 and I say, my lad, that while you are his 
 son, you are my heir. So make yourself 
 useful, my hearty ; — draw a cork, and let 
 us have a peep at the old island through 
 
558 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 ' moonlight.' " And Mark drew the cork 
 of a bottle of brandy which stood upon the 
 table. 
 
 Launcelot filled the glasses, and added, 
 "I say, Ma;k, let us driuk th3 King.'^'* 
 
 " With all my heart, sir," said the 
 other ; " only, before I do so, I should 
 like to know what king you mean, uncle. 
 Is it he that came here fiom Hanover last 
 year when the queen died, or he that is 
 across the water, and that should be king ?" 
 
 "Smash it, iVJark!" said the skijiper, 
 " I didn't think thou was the lad that 
 would hae needed to hae asked such a ques- 
 tion. Why, isn't your name Errington } 
 Aren't you my brother's son.? And you 
 pretend to ask me what king I mean ; 
 Why, then, I mean our King ! — King 
 James ! and here's luck to him in a bum- 
 per." 
 
 " So be it," responded Mark ; and, af- 
 ter drinking off his glass, he added — 
 "but, uncle, the House of Commons and 
 the Lords, and th : army too, 1 believe are, 
 almost to a man, on the side of the Elec- 
 tor of Hanover ; and I should like to know, 
 if you think there is an}' likelihood of the 
 King returning to this country — if there 
 would be any chance for him if he should 
 return — or if his cause is really kept 
 alive .?" 
 
 " Why, Mark, man," returned Launce- 
 lot, "is that all thou knows about it.? 
 Listen, lad, and I will tell thee something, 
 if thou art a true Errington. You know 
 that I was ashore, when we were at Shields 
 last week, four or five days V 
 
 " I must know that," replied the ne- 
 phew, " for you left the brig under my 
 charge ; but I didn't know where you were, 
 or what you were doing ; and, as I say, it 
 was no business of mine to ask." 
 
 " Right again, my lad," continued 
 Launcelot \ " thou shalt have the ship, for 
 thou dost deserve her. But 1 will tell 
 thee what I was doing on shore. I was on 
 the King's service — I was seeing what I 
 could do for him. Ye ask me if the 
 cause be kept alive ! Why, man, does 
 
 the wind blow when ye take in a reef.-* 
 You know Mr. Foster, the member for 
 the county, don't you .?" 
 
 " I do — perfectly well," replied Mark. 
 
 " Then, if you do," added Launcelot, 
 " you know a chip of the right block. He 
 is a Trojan, every inch of him — a king's 
 man to the backbone. The king will 
 never stand in need of a friend while such 
 a man as Foster is alive. But, as I was ' 
 telling you of being ashore last week, I 
 went across the country, as far as Cor- 
 bridge ; and, at the house of our relation, 
 Thomas Errington of Beaufront, I met 
 Mr. Foster, no longer member for North- 
 umberland in the Elector's parliament, 
 but General of his Majesty's forces south 
 of the Tweed." 
 
 " I can't say I understand you well," 
 interrupted Mark ; " what forces do you 
 mean .?" 
 
 " Why, hark ye, lad," said Launcelot — 
 " the spirit that used to stir up our fa- 
 thers in the days of old, is alive again in 
 Northumberland, and our friends have 
 mounted the saddle and drawn the sword 
 for the kino-. At Beaufront, I did not 
 only meet General Foster (for such, as I 
 told you, he now is), but I also met that 
 excellent young nobleman, the Earl of 
 Derwentwater, his brother Charles Rat- 
 cliffe, and Captain Shaftoe ; with Mr. 
 Swinbourn of Capheaton, all the Charle- 
 tons of Reedsmouth, Philip Hodgson of 
 Sandow, the Sandersons of Hely, Shaftoe 
 of Bavington, and his son Joblyn of Ben- 
 well, with twenty others ; and all their 
 followers, mounted, armed, and ready for 
 the field ! The sight warmed my heart, 
 Mark. It made me feel twenty years 
 younger than I am. Our relation is one 
 of the chief commanders under General 
 Foster ; and when I saw so many noble 
 fellows round me, all ready to lay down 
 their lives in the good and true cause, my 
 blood took fire, and I went forward to the 
 General, and, stretching out my hand — 
 ' I beg your pardon, INIr. Foster,' said I, 
 * but you were good enough to say that I 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTOK 
 
 559 
 
 was of some service to you, by my vote 
 and otherwise, at the last election, and I 
 should only like to know if I cannot be 
 useful now ; my heart is as warm as any 
 man"'s in the cause, and my arm is none 
 of the weakest.' ^ Ah ! my old friend, 
 Launcelot,' said he, 'I am glad to find 
 you here. We just want such spirits as 
 you— you can be of much service to us.' 
 ' Why, I don't know, your honor,' said I, 
 ' that I am very like a spirit ; I should 
 rather think that I am a piece of as good 
 and as heavy flesh and blood as the most 
 of folk. But, however, only tell me how 
 1 can be of service to the cause, and, by 
 St. George ! General, the thing is done !' 
 And so, Mark" 
 
 " Well, what then ?" asked the nephew. 
 
 "What then !" continued Launcelot — 
 " why, he told me how I could be of ser- 
 vice to him, to be sure. But come, lad, 
 I think we wouldn't be the worse of an- 
 other drop of the ' moonlight,' just to 
 brighten both eyes ; so, pour out another, 
 and let us drink — ' Luck to the Earl of 
 Mar, and the right cause.' " 
 
 " With all my heart," said Mark ; and 
 they drank success to the Earl of Mar. 
 
 " I say, nevy," resumed Launcelot, after 
 a pause, " what do you think of the castle 
 on the island, here — do you think you and 
 I could take it ?" 
 
 >'Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mark, "that 
 is a good joke ! — the first shot from their 
 batteries would send the little brio; out of 
 the water ; and, I suppose, the garrison 
 won't consist of less that twenty men.'' 
 
 " And what of all that .'" replied Laun- 
 celot, gravely ; "I ask you, if you think 
 we could take it ? Why, lad, I find thy 
 intellects need to be rubbed up — take an- 
 other glass. Although I dont give a snap 
 of my fingers for the score of foggies who 
 keep the castle, you don't take me to be 
 such a flat-fish as to think of forcing it 
 from them by assault ? No, man, I shall 
 undermine them." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha I — worse and worse T" 
 said Mark; *^ undermine them, uncle! 
 
 why, the castle is built upon a rock, which 
 you and I might pick at for seven years 
 (if they would let us), before we were able 
 to blow them up." 
 
 " Well, Mark," said the uncle, " I find 
 it is of no use talking to you. You are a 
 fearless fellow ; but you are as thick about 
 the upper works as a millstone. If you 
 saw a way by which the castle might be 
 taken, and the flag of the Stuarts hoisted 
 on it instead of the Hanoverian rao;, would 
 you help me to do it ? I say, would you 
 help me, Mark .^ If you wouldn't, you 
 don't deserve thou art no Evrinsrton." 
 
 " Would I help thee !" replied the other 
 — " why, to be sure I would, and die by 
 your side, too, if it were necessary." 
 
 " Give me thy hand, my lad," said 
 Launcelot ; " that is just what I want — 
 and, to-morrow, when you hear me say 
 ' St. George r do as you see me do. In 
 the meantime, send one of the men ashore, 
 and tell him to go across the Low to 
 Goswick for, a couple of salmon ; or, if 
 he can't get them tbere, let him go to 
 Berwick for them. You will find, my 
 boy, that a salmon-fin may undermine a 
 garrison as effectually as gunpowder." 
 
 " Ho ! ho !" added Mark, " I begin to 
 see something now." 
 
 " Never mind what you see," replied 
 his uncle ; " send a man ashore." 
 
 On the following day, Launcelot went 
 upon the island ; and, strolling carelessly 
 along towards the castle, with his pipe in 
 his teeth, he met the sergeant who had 
 the command of the garrision. "Well, 
 sergeant," said the skipper, " what news 
 have you this morning .^" 
 
 " Why, ha'nt you heard them, mas- 
 ter .^" replied the other ; " I hear as how 
 the whole mainland is in arms, and some 
 say the Pretender has arrived in Scot- 
 land." 
 
 " Ay, ay," returned Launcelot, laugh- 
 ing ; " that story may do to frighten old 
 women, but it won't go down with men. 
 I say, friend, the people on shore are not 
 quite such fools as that would prove them 
 
560 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 to be ; neither do I believe that the Pre- 
 tender is so much of an ass as to venture 
 his head in this country again." 
 
 " Well, well, you may laugh, master," 
 rejoined the sergeant ; " but I know it is 
 no laughing matter. Our commanding 
 officer mentions it in the instructions 
 be sent me from Berwick this morning." 
 "Why, are the people mad.?" said 
 Launcelot ; " do they intend to plunge the 
 country in civil war for the sake of any 
 man ? Hang the whole race of fools, say 
 I ;" and as he spoke, he dashed his pipe 
 upon the ground and broke it to pieces. 
 
 "Well done, master," added the ser- 
 geant ; " I am glad to find your principles 
 are of the right sort ; so come along to my 
 room in the castle, and we will drink the 
 health of his Majesty King George, and 
 confusion to his enemies, in a tankard of 
 nut-brown ale." 
 
 " Whew ! whew !" whistled the skipper ; 
 " no, my hearty, when I drink his health 
 it is in brandy — brandy redder than the 
 rising sun ; none of your slops for me. 
 But, as I believe you to be an honest fel- 
 low, come aboard of my brig, now lying 
 alongside here ; bring all your men with 
 you that aren't upon duty — there is room 
 enough in the cabin for all — and you shall 
 have a drop of the real blood-warmer, pure 
 as imported ; and I'm blowed but you've 
 too honest a face not to wink at how it 
 was imported. By the way, 1 have also 
 o-ot two beautiful salmon on board, and 
 we shall demolish them amongst us as a 
 relish to the brandy. So tip your men 
 the boatswain's whistle, and I'll call a boat 
 ashore." 
 
 The rarity of brandy and salmon was 
 too much for the sergeant's stomach ; and, 
 though he at first said there was no neces- 
 sity for taking his men with him — " Oh, 
 the more the merrier — that is alwa3's my 
 way," said Launcelot ; and, within ten 
 minutes, the sergeant and every soldier 
 belonging to the garrison, with the excep- 
 tion of a corporal, two privates, and an old 
 gunner, were on board the little brig. 
 
 Launcelot did the honors of the table, 
 and his nephew, Mark, acted as croupier. 
 The salmon quickly disappeared, and the 
 brandy went merrily round. The skipper, 
 to use his own phrase, was a " seasoned 
 cask ;" and, after pouring the contents of 
 a bottle down his throat, he could draw 
 another cork, and say he would " wet both 
 eyes.'' Mark was more abstemious; 
 though, being used to the liquor, it re- 
 quired no small quantity to produce a 
 visible effect upon him. But it was too 
 potent for the soldiers. Launcelot plied 
 them with the " dry stuff, neat as import- 
 ed." The brig, too, began to heave a 
 little ; for an easterly breeze had sprung 
 up, and she began to toss up and down, 
 bow and stern, and caused divers of the 
 soldiers to shake on and from their seats. 
 But the skipper cried — " Never mind, my 
 hearties ! — up again ! — there is nothing 
 like a drop of the real stuff for soa-sick- 
 ness." 
 
 The sergeant had just finished his ninth 
 glass, and returned it to the table with 
 the flourish of a hero, hiccuping, and 
 stretching out his arm to the skipper to 
 shake hands with him, when the brig giv- 
 ing a sudden plunge, down went the man 
 of war, with his face upon the cabin floor, 
 and three of his companions fell upon 
 him. They strove to rise, but it was 
 vain. They had become drunk, dead 
 drunk, as in a moment, and they groaned 
 in sickness — deadly sickness. Their com- 
 panions laughed at their disaster, and 
 commenced in full chorus to sing a bac- 
 chanalian sono;. Launcelot ioined in the 
 , chorus, and cried — " Fill again, my boys ! 
 — fill ao-ain ! — never mind the sergeant — 
 
 o o 
 
 he'll soon come round, no fear of him." 
 Another glass, and the vociferating of 
 
 the song, produced the desired effect. 
 
 Every soldier's head reeled — they began 
 
 to see double. 
 
 *' St. George I" exclaimed Launcelot, 
 
 " but I must on shore ; I have something 
 
 to do." And, as he ascended the cabin 
 
 stairs, Mark rose and followed him. 
 
ADVENTURES OP LAUNCELOT ERPJNGTON. 
 
 561 
 
 *' Hollo, master ! — where are you going, 
 ell ?" cried the soldiers ; " you are not 
 going to leave us in this way ?" 
 
 " No, no, my brave fellows," cried the 
 skipper ; " draw another cork, and make 
 yourselves at home ; I'll be with you pre- 
 sently." 
 
 " Ay, ay," rejoined they ; '^ we'll do 
 that, and quickly too — good luck to ye " 
 
 " Now, Mark, my lad," said the skip- 
 per, "just keep by me, and you shall see 
 a bit of sport." And going to the head 
 of the vessel, he called to him a seaman, 
 and said — " Bob, take a handspike and go 
 aft to the companion, and the first of those 
 lobsters in the cabin that offers to crawl 
 upon deck, give him a tip over the sconce 
 with it, and send him, heels up, down 
 again." 
 
 " Very well. Sir," said the seaman un- 
 concernedly, stooping, and lifting up a 
 handspike as he spoke ; " I'll do that." 
 
 " Skull us ashore, boy," said Launce- 
 lot, to the urchin of whom we have already 
 spoken, as resembling a water-imp ; and 
 leaping into the boat, while his nephew 
 followed him — " Now, Mark, my lad," 
 continued he, '' now for a touch at glory !" 
 They were landed within a hundred yards 
 of the castle, and immediately proceeded 
 towards it. The sentinel at the gate, 
 knowing them as the boon companions of 
 his fellow-soldiers, suffered them to ap- 
 proach him. 
 
 " Well, my fine fellow," said Launce- 
 lot, addressing him, " I must say it is too 
 bad to keep you fixed up here like a pillar, 
 or lark in a cage, while your comrades are 
 all as merry as old Bacchus, on board of 
 my little brig. But I didn't forget you, 
 and have brought a drop of the creature 
 to comfort your heart." 
 
 The sentinel was about to thank him, 
 when Launcelot, instead of producing the 
 bottle, suddenly grasped him by the throat, 
 dashing him on the ground, and wrested 
 his musket from his hands, crying as he 
 did so, " Now, Mark, into the castle, and 
 down with the corporal !" 
 VOL. n. ''3 
 
 Th'C soldier was as a child in the iron 
 grasp of Launcelot Errington, who, pulling 
 a quantity of rope-yarn from his breast, 
 tied his pri-soner hand and foot, and left 
 him on the ground. His nephew in the 
 meantime, had hurried into the castle, 
 where, meeting the corporal, he as easily 
 overcame him, as his uncle had disarmed 
 the sentinel. There remained but another 
 soldier and the old gunner to conquer. 
 Seizing the arms of his hand-and-foot- 
 bound prisoner, Launcelot hastened to the 
 eastern side of the castle, where the other 
 soldier stood guard, and approaching, un- 
 observed, within a few yards of him, and 
 presenting the musket, cried, " Yield ! — 
 down with your arms !" 
 
 The soldier refused to comply with his 
 command, and was levelling his musket 
 towards the besieger, when Launcelot, to 
 use his own phrase, " sent a bit of lead 
 through the shoulder of his left wing," and 
 the soldier and his musket fell on the bat- 
 tlement together. 
 
 Mark, in the meantime, having secured 
 the corporal, seized the old gunner (wha 
 had ventured out of the armory on hear- 
 ing the cries of the corporal for assistance) 
 by the breast, and held him until he should 
 receive the commands of his uncle con- 
 cernino" him. 
 
 " Tie the old chap's wrists, but not his 
 feet, Mark," cried Launcelot, on behold- 
 ing his nephew with his foot on the body 
 of the corporal, and his hand on the breast 
 of the gunner ; ^' only tie his hands to 
 prevent his doing mischief ; I have a uso 
 for his feet." 
 
 Mark pinioned the veteran accordingly ; 
 and Launcelot, drao-rrins; the two soldiers 
 and the corporal into separate apartments, 
 locked them up ; and returning again to 
 his nephew and the gunner, he clenched 
 his fist in the face of the latter, and said, 
 " Now, my old man, without a word of a 
 murmur, you show me where to find the 
 keys of the gates ;" and the gunner did 
 so. 
 
 Launcelot took the keys, and he and 
 
562 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 his nephew, shutting the gates, locked 
 themselves within the walls of the castle, 
 constituting themselves its governors and 
 garrison. Again, addressing the guniier, 
 the skipper added, " Now, old one, I have 
 just another piece of service for you to 
 perform, and then I shall lock you up as 
 I have done your comrades. Lead us to 
 where we shall get the keys of the maga- 
 zine and the arsenal, and then conduct us 
 to them." 
 
 But the old man having perceived a 
 body of fishermen proceeding across the 
 field that lay between the castle and the 
 town, and judging that the alarm would 
 soon be given to the sergeant and his men, 
 he took courage, and ventured to grumble 
 between his teeth, " No, confound me if 
 I do !'' 
 
 "Oh, thou won't show me to them, old 
 lad .'"' said Launcelot ; " you wont, eh ? 
 — Well, take hold of his feet, Mark ; I 
 have a short way of dealing with all stub- 
 born rebels." 
 
 Mark seized the old gunner by the feet, 
 while his uncle pulled back his shoulders ; 
 and lifting him from the ground, they car- 
 ried him to the highest point of the battle- 
 ments, and immediately over the perpen- 
 dicular cliff that rose from the beach. 
 
 " Once! — twice ! — thrice !" cried Laun- 
 celot, while he and his nephew swung the 
 gunner in the air, suspending him over the 
 piled battlement and cliff. Launcelot 
 paused ; and, addressing his victim, stern- 
 ly said, " Do you consent to show us all, 
 now .'' Refuse again, and I will hurl you 
 headlong over the precipice, to be a morn- 
 ing meal to the sea-birds from the Fern 
 isles !" The veteran was no coward, but 
 his heart failed as he felt himself tossed in 
 the air, with death yawning beneath him. 
 " I will show you — show you every- 
 thing," he gasped. 
 
 He took them to where the arms and the 
 powder were kept, and Launcelot and his 
 nephew, having loaded the few cannon 
 upon the ramparts, loaded also every mus- 
 ket that they could find in the castle, and 
 
 placed them on the turrets, ready for de- 
 fence. 
 
 Above a hundred inhabitants of the 
 island — men, momen, and children — now 
 stood before the gate of the castle, mar- 
 velling at the doings of the bold skipper 
 Errington, and his nephew Mark. But 
 he kept them not long in suspense as to his 
 intentions ; fov^ "galling down the union flag 
 of the united k'iii^om from the pole upon 
 the ramparts, he hoisted in its stead the 
 symbol of the house of Stuart ; and, taking 
 off his hat, waved it towards the people, 
 and cried, at the utmost pitch of his sten- 
 torian voice, " I hereby proclaim our only 
 lawful sovereign, James, the Third of Eng- 
 land and Ninth of Scotland, King of these 
 realms ; and let all good men and true 
 come now and enrol themselves under his 
 standard I God save the King ! say I ; 
 and let every traitor be choked that won't 
 say the same.'' 
 
 Then Launcelot and his nephew fired 
 two pieces of cannon, and gave three cheers 
 for King James ; but the spectators re- 
 sponded not to their shout. 
 
 Some said, " Why the old skipper and 
 his mate are drunk, and it is only a frolic ; 
 but they are carrying the joke too far." 
 Others said they were mad. 
 
 But Mark said to him, " Well, uncle, 
 we have got the castle into our own keep- 
 ing, and what are we to do with it, now 
 that we have got it ? We shall have a 
 whole regiment of soldiers against us from 
 Berwick to-morrow, I have no doubt, and 
 you and I can't defend it." 
 
 " Look ye, Mark," said Launcelot, 
 " don't be showing the white feather, or I 
 will swear again you are no Errington, no 
 brother's son of mine, or a drop's blood to 
 me, and the brig may sink where she lies 
 at anchor for all that I care. But now, I 
 say, Mark — I am saying, don't you be 
 thinking but that I know what I have been 
 about all this time. Why, man, the two 
 guns that I fired just now, were a signal 
 to three French privateers, that I have no 
 doubt are lying snugly enough behind the 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTON. 
 
 563 
 
 Ferns, out of sight, but within hearing. 
 We shall have them here to-night ; and, 
 if you keep your eye across the Low, upon 
 Beal bushes in the morning, you will see 
 a troop of General Foster's men coming 
 to our assistance. Then, my lad, I shall 
 be governor of the castle, and you shall 
 be my lieutenant, and owner of the brig 
 into the bargain." 
 
 " Well," said Mark, " it doesn't mat- 
 ter much. I can't say I have any fancy 
 to be mewed up in a stand-still, stone-and- 
 lime castle, with always the same thing 
 before my eyes ; but I take it that I can 
 stand fire as well as any man, and I will 
 stand it too, as you shall see, if it comes 
 to that ; — only, as we had put in here, I 
 had made up my mind for a different sort 
 of amusement to-night. " 
 
 " And what sort of amusement might 
 that be t — To go a sweethearting, eh .?" 
 
 *' Why, I daresay, it was there and 
 thereabouts. I intended to have gone 
 along as far as Bamborough, to have seen 
 an old acquaintance." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! Sally Beadnell," interrupt- 
 ed the uncle ; " you must defer that to 
 another day, Mark. At present, my lad, 
 as the saying goes, you have other fish to 
 
 fry." 
 
 " I see that," said Mark ; '' and I sup- 
 pose, if we have thrust our heads into a 
 trap, we must defend them as we best 
 can. However, happen what may, I'll 
 stand by you while I have a foot to stand 
 upon." 
 
 "Give me your hand again, nevy,'' 
 cried Launcelot ; " you're a famous fel- 
 low ! — Mark, I'm proud of you !" 
 
 Now, in the course of the night, the ser- 
 geant awoke from the sleep in which his 
 drunkenness had sealed up his senses, and 
 gathering himself up upon the cabin floor, 
 wondering where he was, and positive that 
 north had become south, and south north, 
 while the motion of the vessel rendered 
 his " confusion worse confounded," and 
 he stumbled now over one of his com- 
 panions in dissipation, and again over 
 
 another, until shouting at the utmost pitch 
 of his voice — " Hollo ! where am I .'' I 
 am Sergeant Chadwell, commander-in- 
 chief of Holy Island Castle ! Hollo ! 
 where am I .^" And his shouting aroused 
 them from their death-like slumbers. 
 Rising on their hands and knees, sick and 
 shivering, one by one, they began to be 
 conscious of their situation ; and one of 
 them ventured to ascend the cabin stairs. 
 But no sooner had he raised his head upon 
 a level with the deck, than the seaman, 
 faithful to the injunctions of his comman- 
 der, made the handspike descend upon it 
 with sufficient force to cause the soldier to 
 go reeling backwards and downwards 
 amongst his comrades. Another attempt- 
 ed to lead the way, and met with the same 
 fate. " Fire and thunder !" shouted the 
 valorous sergeant, — " what is the meaning 
 of this ? We are in France, or the High- 
 lands, and in the hands of the Pretender 
 and his cannibal Scotchman, I'll be sworn 
 for it." 
 
 He drew his sword and flourished it at 
 the foot of the cabin stairs ; and terror 
 causing his followers to forget their shiver- 
 ing, thirst, and sickness, they unsheathed 
 their bayonets, and threatened, loud and 
 deeply, destruction to all who should op- 
 pose them. Their wild and desperate 
 noise attracted the attention of the crews 
 of several boats that had been out at the 
 herring-fishing ; and they pulling alongside 
 of the brig, in a few minutes the sergeant 
 and his company were released from their 
 captivity ; and, on being brought ashore 
 to the island, made conscious af all that 
 had taken place during their nap in the 
 lap of oblivion. 
 
 The men looked stupid and silly, and 
 now the sergeant raved, that, like a Ro- 
 man, he would turn his sword upon his 
 own breast, for he could not live deprived 
 of his honor ; and again he threatened to 
 storm the castle, sword in hand; which 
 threat, while the fumes of the brandy still 
 reeked in his brain, he, in some measure, 
 carried into effect ; for, marshalling out 
 
564 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 his fifteen rank and file in front of the ab- 
 bey — he with his sword in his hand, and 
 they with their bayonets — he marched 
 them in front of the castle-gate, over 
 which they found Mark Errington stand- 
 ing sentinel, with a firelock over his shoul- 
 der. The sergeant commanded him to 
 surrender. Mark was prone to laugh ; 
 and he now laughed aloud, and inquired, 
 " Who brought them ashore '?" In vain 
 the sergeant demanded that he should 
 come down and open the gates, and in vain 
 he brandished his sword, and his company 
 their bayonets ; for Mark laughed the 
 more. Finding their threats and the 
 flourishing of their weapons of no efi"ect, 
 they began to gather stones, and hurled at 
 his head a volley of missiles. Mark 
 crouched for a moment behind the battle- 
 ment, and springing up so soon as the 
 shower of stones had fallen beyond him, 
 levelled his firelock, and, touching the 
 trigger, carried away a portion of the right 
 cheek and ear of the sergeant command- 
 ing in chief. He raised his hand to his 
 head, and, as he shouted — " I'm shot ! — 
 I'm dead !" — his followers turned upon 
 their heels, and ^' fled for safety and for 
 succor ;" and, as he shouted, and they 
 ran, again Mark's loud laugh was heard 
 half over the island. Throughout the 
 night, Launcelot made such signals as had 
 been agreed on ; but the day dawned, and 
 neither the French privateers, nor the 
 troop that General Foster was to send, ar- 
 rived to his assistance. 
 
 The firing of the two pieces of cannon 
 on the previous day had attracted the at- 
 tention of the inhabitants of Berwick ; and 
 the commander of the garrison, proceed- 
 ing with glass in hand to the look-out upon 
 the ramparts, to his consternation beheld 
 the standard of the house of Stuart waving 
 in the wind from Holy Island Castle. The 
 garrison in that fortress was but a part of, 
 or a dependency on his, and he, as well as 
 the sergeant, felt his honor implicated in 
 the transaction. In a few minutes the news 
 Bpread from street to street, that the re- 
 
 bels were in possession of Holy Island ; ' 
 
 and great was the excitement that prevail- i 
 
 ed. Early, therefore, in the morning, ; 
 
 three companies of infantry, preceded * 
 
 by as many pieces of artillery, proceeded i 
 
 along the bridge and over Tweedmouth '' 
 Moor, until, arriving at Beal Bushes, they,-; 
 
 directed their march upon the island. 
 
 J 
 
 Mark, being told by his uncle to keep i 
 his eyes in the morning fixed upon Beal 
 Bushes, was the first to perceive them ; 
 and, calling to his uncle, he said — " Well, 
 yonder is a goodly company of red-coats 
 coming towards the island ; but I don't 
 think, uncle, they are the gentlemen that 
 Mr. Foster was to send to our assistance." 
 Mark spoke this in a tone of what may be 
 called subdued irony. 
 
 " No, splice me if they are, nevy !" an- 
 swered Launcelot ; " I'd bet a stiver they 
 are the Elector's lobsters from Berwick. 
 But never mind, my boy ; I am governor 
 here in the name of the king, and they 
 shan't compel me to give up the keys 
 while there is a shot left in the lockers of 
 the castle." 
 
 As the tide began to ebb, what a short 
 time before had been a sea of two or three 
 miles in width, separating the island from 
 the mainland, became a dry sand, with 
 only the streamlet Lindis winding through 
 it, and leaving a footway communication 
 from Beal to the island. 
 
 The soldiers now began their march 
 across the Low, and, about noon, drew up 
 in hostile array before the castle. The 
 first act of their commanding officer, on 
 learning the actual situation of afi'airs, was 
 to cause the sergeant and his outwitted 
 company to be placed under arrest. He 
 then, with his brother officers and about 
 fifty men, marched forward to the foot of 
 the rock on which the small but formida- 
 ble castle stands, and summoned its occu- 
 pants to surrender at discretion. 
 
 " You, Sir, may surrender if you 
 please," answered bold Launcelot ; *' but 
 I can tell thee, thou wilt find no such word 
 in any dictionary in Holy Island Castle — 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTOiN". 
 
 566 
 
 therefore, I don't know what you mean. 
 I ! Do thou thy best, and I'll do mine ! Make 
 ■ ready, Mark, my lad," he added ;" we 
 i ! may hold out until the General or some of 
 j I them come to our assistance, and when 
 ' they hear the sound of our being at warm 
 
 work it will hasten them." 
 ^1\ The three pieces of artillery were point- 
 ed against the gate of the castle, and the 
 j soldiers poured a shower of musketry 
 i ■ wherever the heads of Launcelot or his 
 nephew were for a moment visible. The 
 two kinsmen, however, maintained along, a 
 desperate, and an active resistance. Some 
 lay dead around the foot of the rock, and 
 many wore borne wounded to the town. 
 The fishermen, who stood at a distance, 
 spectators of the siege, while they pro- 
 fessed to be enemies of the Pope and the 
 Pretender (whom some of them consider- 
 ed one and the same person — or, at least 
 father and son), wished success to bold 
 Launcelot and his nephew, and loudly ex- 
 pressed their admiration of their coolness 
 and courage, and the noble stand which 
 they made. But the gate of the castle 
 was at length forced, and the soldiers 
 rushed in. 
 
 " Well, Mark, my boy," said Launce- 
 lot, " since it is to be, I suppose it must 
 be. Brave men have had to use their 
 heels as well as their hands before to-day. 
 Follow me." 
 
 Escaping through a small window in 
 the castle, they clung to the sides of the 
 almost precipitous rocks, and after a most 
 perilous descent, succeeded in reaching 
 the beach. They attempted to conceal 
 themselves among the sea-weed ; but 
 being discovered, were compelled to con- 
 tinue their flight towards the mainland. 
 The sea had again set in, and communica- 
 tion -with the opposite coast was cut off ; 
 and when Launcelot saw this, he said — 
 *' The sea is in, but never mind, Mark, it 
 is so much the better, we won't drown ; 
 we can swim for it, and they daren't fol- 
 low us." 
 
 They had reached within a hundred 
 
 yards of the point where they proposed to 
 plunge into the sea and swim for the 
 mainland, when a shot from one of a party 
 of soldiers, who closely pursued them, 
 pierced Launcelot through the thigh, 
 shattering the bone, and he fell, unable to 
 rise again, upon the sand. " Run, Mark ! 
 run, my lad !" he cried — " never mind 
 me." But Mark turned, and raising his 
 uncle upon his shoulders, ran with him to 
 the sea and plunged in. Ho, however, 
 had not reached beyond his own depth, 
 when a dozen soldiers, rushing into the 
 water after him, surrounded, and pointing 
 their muskets at his head, brought him 
 with his burden to the shore. " Keep a 
 good heart, Mark," said the wounded 
 uncle, on finding that they were prisoners 
 — " you know the saying — ' They who 
 are born to be drowned will never be 
 hanged ;' and I should like to know who 
 were born to be drowned if you and I were 
 not. Fear nothing, Mark — I say, fear 
 nothing. When the King arrives, if he 
 be a man at all, he won't be forgetting' 
 Mark and Launce Errington, and this 
 day's work. I say, you swabs," added 
 he, addressing the soldiers, " if you will 
 have me for a prisoner, you must carry 
 me, for I can't set a timber to the ground." 
 And he muttered something about the 
 cowardliness of shooting a man behind his 
 back. 
 
 The uncle and nephew were fettered, 
 and conveyed in a cart to Berwick jail, 
 where, notwithstanding his confinement, 
 Launcelot's wound healed rapidly, and his 
 limb acquired strength. Their trial was 
 to come on at the ensuing: sessions ; and 
 as death, at least, was their certain doom, 
 their fate created a wondrous sensation in 
 the town. Burgess and stallenger spoke 
 of nothing else ; and some even did not 
 think the town safe with two such terrible 
 rebels imprisoned in it. However, I am 
 persuaded that they had friends in Ber- 
 wick, though their names are not record- 
 ed. Be this as it may, the skipper and 
 his nephew looked forward to their fate. 
 
566 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 not only with perfect indiflPcrence, but 
 they sang from morning until night — " no 
 lark so blithe as they." They astonished 
 the jailor, and, being catholics, they 
 would have nothing to say to the chaplain. 
 Berwick prison-house stood then, as it 
 does now (though the present is not the 
 same building), a huge nuisance in the 
 midst of the street called Marygate ; and 
 then, as now, debtors and felons often met 
 together within it. Now, one day, the 
 prisoners had suspended by cord, from 
 their iron-grated windows, a tin can, on 
 which was pasted a piece of paper, and on 
 the paper was written this simple petition 
 — " Remember the poor Prisoners." 
 Benevolent people, in passing along the 
 street, occasionally dropped a coin into 
 the tin can. But one day, some waggish 
 boy, or secret friend of the Stuart family, 
 slipped into it a mason's chisel ! Some 
 of the prisoners, on drawing up the can, 
 and perceiving the chisel, proposed to 
 throw it over the window again, but 
 Launcelot, who had never been a partaker 
 of the alms which they received, seized it, 
 and concealing it in his bosom, exclaimed 
 — "You take the pence, I take the chisel." 
 Mark smiled significantly as the latter 
 placed the iron instrument in his breast. 
 
 Great was the consternation of the 
 jailor, about a fortnight after this, when, 
 on visiting his wa,rds in the morning, 
 according to custom, he found one after 
 another deserted, and on entering that in 
 which Launcelot and his nephew had been 
 confined, the rays of the morning sun and 
 the morning breeze met his face together. 
 The man of keys, bolts, and bars, stood 
 petrified, horror-stricken ! A flag-stone 
 from the pavement of the floor was re- 
 moved, and there yawned an aperture 
 sufficient to admit the dody of a man, and 
 from which, as hath been stated, issued 
 the morning light and the morning air. 
 There was an old oven in the cell, the 
 door of which stood open, and the oven 
 was filled with stones and earth ! Of all 
 who had been under his charge, the jailor 
 
 found but one or two peaceable debtors 
 left. He hastened to the street, and gave 
 the alarm to the magistrates and the gar- 
 rison, and within half an hour, constables 
 and soldiers were sent in every direction 
 in pursuit of the fugitives. But, leaving 
 them to pursue their different courses, we 
 shall follow the fortunes of Launcelot and 
 his nephew Mark. 
 
 Launcelot made no bad use of his chi- 
 sel. Having raised a flag-stone in the 
 floor of his cell, he began to dig the earth 
 under it, towards the street, carefully 
 concealin2; the earth so duor in the oven 
 already mentioned, and with equal care 
 replacing the flag-stone, before the stated 
 periods of the jailor's visits. The other 
 prisoners, however, being aware of the fact 
 of his being in possession of the chisel, it 
 became necessary that they should be 
 privy to his scheme, and partake in its 
 consequences. When, therefore, in the 
 dead of night, he effected an opening to 
 the street, they escaped with him. 
 
 Launcelot and his nephew, on finding 
 themselves once more at liberty, ran down 
 Hide Hill, and through what is now called 
 the Shore Gate, to the river, where they 
 found lying an oared boat belonging to the 
 Custom House. (The bridge being guard- 
 ed, and secured also by treble gates — for 
 there was the English gate where the sol- 
 diers stood, and two strong gates, called 
 the Blue gates, between that and the cen- 
 tre arch — escape by it was impossible.) 
 They had not pulled off a dozen yards 
 from the shore, when two thieves, who 
 had escaped with them, arrived at the side 
 of the river, and begged to be taken 
 across. Launcelot growled and pulled on ; 
 but Mark, who was fond of a jest, answer- 
 ed — " No, I thank you. You don''t pull 
 In our boat ! It is every man for himself 
 to-night, and we don^t exactly wish the 
 company of thieves yet." 
 
 The sentinels at the bridge heard the 
 sound of the voices, and the dipping of 
 the oars in the water ; but, through the 
 darkness of the night, they could perceive 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERPJNGTON. 
 
 56- 
 
 nothing, and imagined that the sounds 
 proceeded from some vessel about to sail 
 with the moruino; tide. Launcelot and 
 Mark pulled ashore at what is called the 
 Carr Rock, and proceeding to Spittal, 
 they called at the house of a fisherman, 
 with whom the former, in his capacity of 
 smuggler, had had frequent dealings. The 
 fisherman was one who cared nothing 
 either about Kinirs or Pretenders ; but he 
 gave his old friends, Launcelot and Mark, 
 a hearty welcome ; and, as it was known 
 a vigilant search would be made after them, 
 he concealed them in his stow-hole, which, 
 he said, '' All the men alive would never 
 find out." 
 
 I should have told you, however, that 
 Mark, on leaping out of the boat, pushed 
 it adrift, so that no trace of where they 
 had landed mio-ht be discovered, and within 
 a quarter of an hour from their leaving it, it 
 was carried out to sea. 
 
 After the jailor had spread the alarm, 
 so dilio-ent was the search that had been 
 made, that within six hours every prison- 
 er who had escaped, save Mark and his 
 nephew, were captured and brought back 
 to the jail. But they were the principal 
 objects of search. The commander of the 
 garrison offered a reward for their being 
 secured, and a price was set upon their 
 heads ; while they remained secure in the 
 stow-hole of the Spittal fisherman, and 
 from ni^ht ta nisht he brousrht them tid- 
 ings of all that had passed. One night he 
 entered, after they had been concealed 
 about ten days, and the dim lamp revealed 
 that his countenance was, beyond expres- 
 sion, rueful. 
 
 " Ah ! Master Errington, said he, 
 shaking his head, " I doubt you and your 
 nevy canna bide here in safety ony langer. 
 1 was ower in the toon the day, an' I see 
 prented bills aboot the street, and govern- 
 ment offerin' a reward o' five hundred 
 pounds to onybody that will discover or 
 apprehend outher the one or the other o' 
 ye. And ye knaw Jem Phillips — him that 
 ye refused to trust the brandy to last year 
 
 — I knaw he hates you ever since ; I saw 
 him reading the prented bill the day, an' 
 I hae my awn reasons for thinking that 
 Jem knaws where ye are. Therefore, as 
 a friend, I would advise ye baith to shift 
 yer quarters this very nicht." They 
 deemed it prudent to take his advice, and, 
 within half an hour, left their place of 
 concealment ; but not until, from the 
 wardrobe of his wife, he had arrayed them 
 as fish-women — and with their own jackets 
 over the gowns, their heads ornamented 
 with red and yellow handkerchiefs tied 
 beneath their chins, and descending in a 
 loose point down their necks, and each 
 with a creel upon his shoulders, they bade 
 farewell to their friend, and wandered 
 forth upon the moor. 
 
 " Now, Mark, lad," said Launcelot, 
 " what road dost thou think we should 
 steer ^ I have a thought that General 
 Foster will either be about Wooler or 
 Kelso, and I think our best way will be to 
 strike west, and try to find him. What 
 dost thou say .^" 
 
 " Why, uncle, I say that we might seek 
 him until we were found ourselves, and 
 that, I suppose, is what neither you nor I 
 wish. No ; if there is any one that will 
 prove a friend to us now, and not betray 
 us, it is Sally Beadnell ; and I could trust 
 her father, too." 
 
 Launcelot continued walkins; across the 
 moor for a few minutes in silence, and, at 
 length, replied — " Well, Lbelieve you are 
 right, Mark — Bamborough be it. Only 
 you know daylight will be in, and every 
 person astir, before we could reach Belford. 
 Now, 1 propose that we strike across the 
 Kyloe hills, and conceal ourselves all the 
 day among the rocks, and we shall bear 
 down on Sally Beadnell's at midnight." 
 
 " Agreed,'' replied Mark ; and as they 
 passed over the grounds of Scremerston, 
 Launcelot said — " We should be able to 
 get some tidings of the General's move- 
 ments here , if we knew where to make the 
 inquiry, for we are now on the property 
 of the brave young Derwent water." 
 
568 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Very likely," added Mark ; ^' but we 
 don't know friend from foe, or who to in- 
 quire at, and I prefer pushing on to Sally 
 Beadnell's." 
 
 So they continued their flight through 
 Cheswick, Haggerston, and Lowlin, and, 
 before day dawned, both sat down in a 
 desolate place, behind a grey rock, on the 
 Kyloe hills. When the sun arose, Launce- 
 lot raised his head over the bare rock, and 
 from his situation he had a full view of 
 Lindisferne and its bay ; and, after gazing 
 for a few minutes, he said, with a sort of 
 sigh — " I say, Mark, look ! the rascals 
 have our brig away from the island ; there 
 isn't a square-rigged vessel in the roads — 
 nothing but a Scotch sloop from Grange- 
 mouth, or thereabouts — I know by her 
 build." Mark looked over the rock, and, 
 half pathetically, half indignantly exclaim- 
 ed — " Jingo ! so they have ! The fellows 
 could not sail without your orders — who 
 can have taken her ?" " Oh ! the Elec- 
 tor's sharks !" said Launcelot ; " but, 
 never mind, nevy — let her go, and sink 
 with them too. If we get out of this scrape, 
 I can still leave you something handsome 
 that they can't touch." '' Don't talk about 
 that, uncle," said Mark ; " but they shan't 
 keep the brig when I learn who has her." 
 Launcelot gave his nephew a slap upon the 
 shoulder, and cried — " Well said, boy ! I 
 like you better and better, Mark." 
 
 The day passed on, and they had seen 
 people nt a distance, but none observed 
 them. A. little before midnight they left 
 their retreat among the hills, and began 
 to descend towards Bamborough. Now, 
 the father of Sally Beadnell was a farmer, 
 and his house lay about a mile distant 
 from Bamborough Castle, and it was 
 drawing towards three o'clock in a winter 
 morning, when a gentle tapping was heard 
 at the window of the room in which Sally 
 slept. 
 
 *' Who's there .?" she inquired, in a low 
 and timid voice. 
 
 "It is me, Sally— Mark !" was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Mark !" she responded, in a low faint 
 tone of astonishment, and approaching the 
 window, anxiously whispered — " Don't 
 speak, darling ! — don't stir I — lest you be 
 heard ! I will come to you in a minuto ! 
 But, oh ! why have you ventured here .?" 
 
 " There is to be danger here too," 
 muttered Launcelot. 
 
 Mark shook his head, and in the same 
 manner answered — '^ I doubt it." 
 
 In a few minutes, the door was gently 
 turned upon its hinges, and a female issued 
 from the house. Even the dim starlight 
 of the morning revealed that she was young 
 and beautiful. She started, when, instead 
 of meeting her fugitive lover, she beheld 
 two tall, uncouth-looking fishwomen, with 
 creels upon their backs, before her. 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Sally, dear," whis- 
 pered Mark, approaching her — " it is 
 me. You must save my life, love !" 
 
 She threw herself in his arms, and said 
 — '^ O Mark! — dear Mark! — why have 
 you ventured here ? How can I save you .'* 
 You are surrounded by the government 
 soldiers. We are suspected of harboring 
 you as it is, and two of them are billeted, 
 I think they call it, in the house. Oh ! 
 where can you go ? — where can I hide 
 you } I have heard even our servants 
 saying, amongst themselves, that they 
 wished they could get the five hundred 
 pounds that are set upon your head !" 
 
 Mark was silent ; and his uncle added 
 — " This is no harbor for us, lad — we must 
 push our boat off in another direction, 
 though it be through the breakers. There 
 is no help for it now. It is only dying at 
 the worst, and we have met death in the 
 face many a time." 
 
 Sally clung around Mark's neck and 
 wept. 
 
 '^ Don't cry, dear," said he ; " since it 
 is so, and we can have no shelter here, we 
 must just risk every danger, and try to 
 find our way to Foster's army. Belike 
 you can tell us, love, where it now is .^" 
 
 " Alas I" replied she, and she wept 
 more bitterly, " he has no army now. I 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTON. 
 
 569 
 
 heard the soldiers in the house telling my 
 father how the rebels, as they called them, 
 had all been defeated and made prisoners, 
 and that the gallant Derwentwater was in 
 the Tower, and Squire Foster in a place 
 they call Newgate." The uncle and the 
 nephew exchanged looks with each other 
 ■ — they were looks of grief. 
 
 " Let us fight for it, Mark," said 
 Launcelot, bitterly ; " and if we can't 
 escape from the country, we shall die in 
 the attempt. I say, girl, it is not in your 
 power to conceal us ; but your father has 
 arms in the house — pistols, powder, bul- 
 lets — get us them ! If you love Mark — 
 if you would give him a chance for his life 
 — go bring them !" 
 
 Her head fell as if lifeless on her lover's 
 arm. 
 
 " Sally ! Sally dear I" said he, and he 
 kissed her cheek as he spoke — "' look 
 up — speak to us — we cannot stay — get us 
 the pistols — we shall meet hereafter !" 
 
 "Hereafter!" repeated the agonized 
 girl ; " no, no, you cannot go — you could 
 not escape. They are still in search of 
 you over the whole country." She was 
 silent for a few moments, and ao-ain add- 
 ed — " I think — I think I could conceal 
 you for a few days — perhaps until they 
 have done searching for you in these parts. 
 There is a pea-stack behind the house 
 here ; the straw is loose on the top of it, 
 and the wind can't reach it. 1 think no 
 one would find you there, and I could bring 
 you food every night.'' 
 
 " Bless thee, my own sweet one !" said 
 Mark. " Ay, bless her, indeed !" added 
 Launcelot — " she is a good girl." 
 
 She conducted them to the pea-stack ; and 
 when she had seen the straw drawn over 
 them, she stole again to the house. Each 
 ni^ht she visited them, communicatinjy to 
 them, in anxious whisperings, all that she 
 had heard during the day, and of the search 
 that was still made after them. But, al- 
 thou2rh her father was fond of Mark, she 
 feared to communicate to him what she had 
 done ; for a traitor's daath was denounced 
 
 against any one who should be found guilty 
 of harboring or concealing the Erring- 
 tons. 
 
 On the third day after their concealment, 
 the two soldiers who were billeted in the 
 house came forth, and leanincc against the 
 stack, began to pull the peas from it. 
 
 " It is plaguy strange," said the one to 
 the other, " that nothing has been heard 
 about these fellows, the Erringtons. / 
 thought, when we were sent here, that we 
 stood a good chance of dividing the reward 
 between us ; for I expected, from all that 
 I had heard, to find the young one skulk- 
 ing about the place." 
 
 " And I believe he is nearabouts, too," 
 answered the other ; " I could swear the 
 girl Sally knows where he is. I observe 
 she watches every step we take." 
 
 So saying, they returned to the house, 
 leaving the fugitives, for whose lives they 
 sought, and who had overheard them, with 
 the disagreeable consciousness that the 
 neighborhood in which they were conceal- 
 ed was more than suspected. Nine days 
 passed on, and they remained undiscover- 
 ed in their painful hiding-place. But, on 
 the tenth night, the thrasher or barn-man 
 came into the room where Mr. Beadnell 
 and his family sat, and inquired, " What 
 stack he should begin to thrash next .'*" 
 
 "■ The poa-stack, John," answered Mr. 
 Beadnell. 
 
 '' No ! oh no ! it must not be thrashed 
 to-morrow!" exclaimed his daughter hur- 
 riedly ; and her looks yet more plainly be- 
 spoke her agitation. 
 
 The barn-man was a sln-ewd man, and 
 he failed not to observe her confusion, 
 and while he kept his eye fixed upon her, 
 he beo;an to ruminate on its cause. 
 
 " What do you mea;i, Sally, love .?" in- 
 quired her father ; " why may not the 
 stack be thrashed to-morrow .''" 
 
 " Because — because," answered she 
 falteringly, " I wish — John to go to Aln- 
 wick for me." 
 
 "Oh, very well," repHed her father — 
 " he may go." 
 
570 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS, 
 
 " Very well," repeated the barn-man ; 
 " at what hour must 1 be ready, Ma'am ?" 
 But there was a withering smile on his face 
 as he spoke. He looked as a man who has 
 found a treasure, and wishes to conceal it. 
 
 " At six," faltered the trembling girl. 
 
 When the barn-man withdrew, Mr. 
 Beadnell desired his other children to go 
 into the kitchen, and said — " I must 
 speak to you, Sally." She placed her 
 hands before her eyes and sobbed aloud. 
 " Come dear," said he, soothingly, " I am 
 not angry with you ; but you have not 
 acted fairly with me, Sally. You know 
 where Mark Errington is — you have him 
 concealed." " Father! father!" she ex- 
 claimed, wringmg her hands — " oh, do not 
 betray my poor Mark!" "Me betray 
 him ! silly girl !" said he ; " Why would 
 you not trust your father ? — you knew that 
 I was his friend. You have betrayed him, 
 Sally I" " Oh ! no, no !" she cried— ^' do 
 not say so ! how have I betrayed him .^" 
 " Is he not concealed about the pea-stack .^" 
 added he. " Yes," replied she, trembling- 
 ly, and wept the more ; " he and his uncle 
 have been concealed there these nine days." 
 " Nine days .^" said her father ; " Sally, 
 you are a strange girl. I suspected that 
 you knew where they were ; but now the 
 old knave of a barn-man knows where they 
 are also, and before morning he will betray 
 them. They must leave this place this 
 very hour, or their blood will be on our 
 head." 
 
 The father and his daughter crept slow- 
 ly to the stack where the fugitives lay. 
 They informed them of their place of re- 
 treat being known ; and the honest farmer, 
 furnishing them with money, provisions, 
 and the garb of countrymen, urged them 
 to fly for their lives, and offered up a brief 
 but earnest prayer for their protection. 
 
 The parting of Mark and Sally was 
 abrupt but agonizing ; and even his uncle 
 let fall a tear upon her hand, as he took 
 it to bid her farewell. 
 
 Within three hours from the time of 
 their departure, and when the family had 
 
 retired to rest, but neither the father nor 
 his daughter to sleep, the barn-man, with 
 a party of soldiers from the castle, arrived, 
 and surrounding the stack, they thrust 
 their bayonets into it, and began to level 
 it with the ground. Disappointed in find- 
 ing their expected prey, they proceeded 
 to search the house, which Mr. Beadnell 
 said they were welcome to do ; and, taking 
 his treacherous servant by the throat, he 
 dragged him to the door, in the presence 
 of the soldiers, flinging his wages after 
 him. 
 
 Concealing themselves in the moors by 
 day, and travelling by night, on the third 
 night after leaving Bamborough, Launcelot 
 and his nephew arrived at Gateshead 
 House, where they obtained shelter ; 
 and, after remaining there a few days, 
 hearing of a vessel that was about to sail 
 from Sunderland to France, the gentle- 
 man who was then concealing them pro- { 
 cured them a passage in her. They arriv- 
 ed at Sunderland about midnight, and, be- 
 fore daybreak, once more breathed their 
 ocean air upon its bosom. 
 
 After their arrival in France, Mark 
 kept up his correspondence with Sally 
 Beadnell, trusting to see better days, and 
 cheering her with the hope that they 
 would see them. In one of her letters, 
 there was the following passage — " A 
 neighbor of ours, the rich old man that 
 always used to try to set my father against 
 you, and strive to get him to marry me to 
 him, has got your uncle's ship. She was 
 'fiscated, I think they call it. He got it 
 for a mere trifle — father says for nothing 
 at all, but for some low work that he did 
 for the government. She was brought 
 into North Sunderland, and I hear is to 
 sail for some place they call Hamburgh ; 
 and if that be anyway near where you are, 
 I think it is a pity but that you and your 
 uncle could go there and take her — for 
 every man has a right for his own." So 
 wrote Sally Beadnell. Mark showed the 
 letter to his uncle. " Nevy," said Launce- 
 lot, after perusing it, " I always said Sally 
 
ADVENTURES OF LAUNCELOT ERRINGTON. 
 
 571 
 
 was a sensible girl. I'll buy her her wed- 
 ding-dress for that letter. We will off to 
 Hamburgh to-morrow. The brig is mine .? 
 No man, no king, nobody had a right to 
 take her from me. I bought her with my 
 own money — I have ventured my life in 
 her. She shall be mine again. I say it ! 
 Set us make ready for Hamburgh, Mark." 
 
 Two days before the brig was to sail 
 from Hamburgh for London, two strangers, 
 apparently German merchants, wearing 
 beards and mustachios, came on board, 
 and in broken English bargained for their 
 passage. The terms were agreed upon 
 and the money paid. 
 
 It was a beautiful moonlight night, and 
 the vessel had not proceeded twenty miles 
 from the land. The two merchants were 
 walking the deck together. They separat- 
 ed ; and the one suddenly dashed the man 
 at the helm upon the deck, while the other, 
 seizing the hatchway, placed it over the 
 forecastle, and standing upon it, drew a 
 pistol and presented it at the head of the sea- 
 seaman on watch. It was the work of a 
 moment. 
 
 " Tie your prisoner, Mark," cried he 
 who stood over the forecastle, " and shoot 
 the skipper, if he peep from the cabin to 
 show resistance." The captain was in the 
 habit of indulging in " potations pottle 
 deep," and at the moment was in no con- 
 dition to offer effective resistance. Before, 
 therefore, he was aroused from his fit of 
 stupefaction, Mark had bound the helms- 
 man, and left him helpless on the deck ; 
 and as the skipper reeled up the cabin 
 stairs, he shouted, as he ascended — 
 " Hollo ! hollo there ! — what are you 
 after ? I hope none o' you are uncivil to 
 the strange gentlemen, eh.^" — and this 
 was spoken with sundry well know drunk- 
 en interruptions. The moment that he 
 had raised his head above the deck, Mark 
 burst into his wonted laugh, and grasping 
 him by the breast, said — " Come up old 
 boy, and I'll show you what we are after !" 
 
 Thus saying, he pulled him upon the 
 deck, and laid him prostrate by the side 
 
 of the helmsman. The skipper fumed, 
 kicked, and raged most wickedly. But 
 Mark, causing him to feel the cold muzzle 
 of a pistol on his cheek, and threatening, 
 at the same time, to give him its contents 
 through his head if he struggled more, he 
 suddenly sobered down into tranquillity, 
 and suffered his hands and feet to be bound. 
 
 Mark now proceeded to assist his uncle, 
 who still stood on the hatchway, over the 
 forecastle, in which the rest of the crew 
 clamored lustily, demanding to know the 
 cause of their confinement, and shouting 
 
 promiscuously " Mutiny ! — Piracy ! — 
 
 Murder I" 
 
 " Silence, ye rascals !" vociferated 
 Launcelot, stamping his foot upon the 
 hatchway ; " I am Launce Errington, if 
 ever you heard of such a man — this ship 
 is mine — I bought her and never sold her — 
 and death to the first man who disputes 
 my right to command her !" 
 
 " Launcelot Errington !" exclaimed the 
 men confined in the forecastle, in a tone 
 which bespoke that a sudden " change had 
 come over the spirit of their dream." 
 
 " My old master !" cried the man who 
 ha'd been on the watch, and at whose head 
 the pistol had, till now, been levelled — 
 " Forgive me. Sir," added he — " I am 
 your old cabin-boy, Bill Smith of North 
 Shields, that sailed with you twenty years 
 ago, and, for your kindness to me then, I 
 am ready to go to Davy Jones with you, 
 if you say the word." 
 
 ^' Bravo, Bill, my lad ! — give me your 
 hand," said Launcelot ; "I remember 
 you now," and he thrust the pistol into 
 the breast-pocket of a greatcoat which he 
 wore. And as the seaman shook the hands 
 of his old master he added — " And be this 
 your nevy. Master Mark, that took Holy 
 Island with you, Sir — the Castle, I mean .?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Launcelot, " this is my 
 nevy, your commander that will be ; for 
 I don't intend to sail the brig myself, and 
 neither will I part with you, Bill." 
 
 " Ah, master ! you're the old man," 
 said the seaman. " Never heard an ill 
 
572 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 word of you. You were always a-doing 
 good to somebody." Mark shook Bill 
 Smith by the hand, and said he " liked to 
 meet a fellow that had gratitude aboard, 
 and didn't forget old friends." For some 
 minutes the crew, who were cooped up in 
 the forecastle, were silent, listening to 
 what was passing over their heads. 
 
 "Master," added Bill Smith, "I see 
 Master Mark has got the skipper of the 
 brig that was, and his mate, fast enough 
 aft there ; and I'm sure there is only one 
 of my messmates below that wont stand 
 by you as stiffly as 1 will." 
 
 The hatchway was removed, and the 
 crew were let up one by one, each taking 
 a vow, before he was permitted to put his 
 foot upon the deck, that he would be true 
 to the real owner and master of the vessel. 
 But, as the last man made his appearance — 
 " Ah ! don't trust him," said Bill Smith ; 
 " that is him I meant — I would'nt believe 
 him on his oath. Set him adrift with the 
 skipper and mate." 
 
 " I'll trust to you, Bill," said Launcelot. 
 
 The stern -boat was lowered, and in it 
 were placed a quantity of biscuits, beef, 
 water, and rum. The skipper and mate 
 were hoisted over the side of the vessel 
 into it, and after them the seaman, whom 
 Bill Smith said was 7wt to be trusted. 
 Launcelot eagerly siezed, the helm of his 
 old vessel — as eagerly as along absent son 
 would embrace his mother — and steering 
 away from them, with a loud voice wished 
 them "■ Good bye !" 
 
 They had sailed about a league, when 
 he called his nephew to him, and said — 
 " JN ow, Mark, my lad, you are to pass 
 yourself off for the skipper whom we have 
 set adrift. I shall act as j^our mate. Wc 
 shall proceed direct to London, deliver the 
 
 cargo as consigned, and I am off with my 
 vessel again — and, in taking my own, who 
 dare say that I rob any man .^" 
 
 They arrived in London, the cargo was 
 delivered. They were ready to sail for 
 France, when Launcelot heard that his 
 old friend, Mr. Foster, late member for 
 Northumberland, and General of the 
 Chevalier's forces south of the Tweed, 
 was still in Newgate, and that in a few 
 weeks he would be led to the scaffold. 
 Launcelot had risked his life frequently, 
 and he was not the man who would not 
 risk it again to save a friend. In the dis- 
 guise of a Northumbrian farmer he gained 
 admission into Newgate. How he accom- 
 plished the rest of his task remains a 
 mystery ; but certain it is, that with him 
 General Foster escaped from his cell, and 
 in the brig was conveyed safely to France. 
 
 I have but little more to add ; Laun- 
 celot Errington gave up the brig to his 
 nephew, who continued to trade with suc- 
 cess from the French ports to the Medi- 
 terranean. When a general pardon was 
 granted to all who had been engaged in the 
 Chevalier's cause, the uncle and nephew 
 returned to their native land. Launcelot 
 lived for more than thirty years after his 
 taking of Holy Island fortress, and died 
 in Newcastle in 1746, from grief and old 
 ase, on hearing the result of the battle of 
 Culloden. 
 
 1 have but another word to add respect- 
 ing his nejjhew Mark. When he return- 
 ed to his native land, Sally Beadnell gave 
 him her hand ; and to their children and 
 their grandchildren, when half a century 
 had passed, they told the tale of Holy Is- 
 land Castle, of Berwick gaol, and the pea- 
 stack ; and if there be aught strange in 
 it, it is as true as strange. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STORM. 
 
 573 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STORM. 
 
 For several days tlie wind had "been east- 
 erly, with an intense frost. At last, 
 however, the weather subsided into a calm 
 and dense fog, under which, at mid-day, 
 it was difficult to find one's way amidst 
 those mountain tracts along which, in 
 general, my route lay. The grass and 
 heath were absolutely loaded with hoar 
 frost. My cheeks became encompassed 
 by a powdered covering ; my breath was 
 intensely visible, and floated and lingered 
 about my face with an oppressive and al- 
 most sufibcating density. No sun, moon, 
 or star had appeared for upwards of forty- 
 eight hours ; when, according to my pre- 
 concerted plan, I reached the farm town 
 of Burnfoot, I was now in the centre of 
 Queensberry Hills, the most notable sheep 
 pasturage in the south of Scotland. It 
 was about three o'clock of the 15th day of 
 January, when, under a cheerful welcome 
 from the guidwife, I rested my pack (for, 
 be it known, I belong to this class of pe- 
 ripatetic merchants) upon the meal ark, 
 disengaged my arms from the leather straps 
 by which the pack was suspended from 
 my shoulders, and proceeded to light my 
 pipe at the blazing peat-fire. Refresh- 
 ments, such as are best suited to the 
 packmaii's drouth^ were soon and amply 
 supplied, and I had the happiness of see- 
 ing my old acquaintances (for I visited 
 Burnfoot twice a-year, on my going and 
 coming from Glasgow to Manchester) 
 drop in from their several avocations, one 
 after another, and all truly rejoiced to be- 
 hold my face, and still more delighted to 
 inspect the treasure and the wonders of 
 " the pack." At last the guidman him- 
 self suspended his plaid from the mid-door 
 head, put off his shoes and leggings, as- 
 sumed his slippers, together with his pre- 
 scriptive seat at the head or upper end of 
 
 the lang-settle. The guidwife, returning 
 butt from bedding the youngest of some 
 half-score of children, welcomed her hus- 
 band with a look of the most genuine af- 
 fection. She put a little creepy stool un- 
 der his feet, felt that his clothes were not 
 wet, scolded the dogs to a respectful dis- 
 tance, and inspired the peats inio a double 
 blaze. The oldest daughter, now " wo- 
 man grown," sat combing the hoar frost 
 from her raven locks, and looking out from 
 beneath beautifully arched and bushy 
 eyebrows upon the interesting addition 
 which had been made to the meal ark. 
 Some half a score of healthy lads and 
 lasses occupied the bench ayont the fire, 
 o'er canopied by sheep-skins, aprons, 
 stockings, and footless hose. The dogs, 
 after various and somewhat noisy differ- 
 ences had been adjusted, fell into order 
 and position around the hearth, enjoying 
 the warmth, and licking, peacefully and 
 carefully, the wet from their sides. The 
 cat, by this time, had made a returning 
 motion from the cupboard head, from 
 which she had been watching the arrange- 
 ments and movements beneath. As this 
 appeared to " Help " to be an infringe- 
 ment of the terms of armistice and of the 
 frontier laws, he sprang with eagerness 
 over the hearth. Pussy, finding it danger- 
 ous, under this sudden and somewhat un- 
 expected movement, " dare terga,^^ in- 
 stantly drew up her whole body into an 
 attitude, not only of defence, but defi- 
 ance ; curving herself into a bristling 
 crescent, with the head of a dragon at- 
 tached to it, and with one horrid hiss and 
 sputter, compelled Help first to hesitate 
 and then to retreat. 
 
 " Three paces back the youth retired, 
 And saved himself Irora harm." 
 
 The guidwife, however — who seemed 
 
574 
 
 TALES OP TPIE BORDERS. 
 
 not unaccustomed to such demonstrations, 
 and who manifestly acted on the humane 
 principle of assisting the weaker, by as- 
 sailing the stronger combatant — gave 
 Help such demonstrations of her inten- 
 tions, as at once reduced matters to the 
 status quo ante helium. (I have as good 
 a right to scholarship as my brother pack- 
 man, Plato, who carried oil to Egypt.) 
 Thus peace and good order being restored, 
 the treasures of my burden became an im- 
 mediate and a universal subject of inquiry. 
 I was compelled, nothing loath, to unstrap 
 my various packages, and disclose to view 
 all the varied treasures of the spindle and 
 loom. Shawls were spread out into enor- 
 mous display, with central, and corner, 
 and border ornam.ents, the most amazing 
 and the most fashionable ; waist-coat 
 pieces of every stripe and figure, from the 
 straight line to the circle, of every hue 
 and coloring which the rainbow exhibits, 
 were unfolded in the presence and under 
 the scrutinizing thumb of many purchasers. 
 The guidwife herself half coaxed and half 
 scolded a fine remnant of Flanders lace, 
 of most tempting aspect, out of the guid- 
 man's reluctant pocket. The very dogs 
 seemed anxious to be accommodated, and 
 applied their noses to some unopened 
 bales, with a knowing look of inquiry. 
 Things were proceeding in this manner, 
 when the door opened, and there entered 
 a young man of the most prepossessing 
 appearance ; in fact, what Burns terms a 
 " strapping youth." I would observe 
 that, at his entrance, the daughter "'s eye 
 (of whom I had formerly made mention) 
 immediately kindled into an expression of 
 the most universal kindness and benevo- 
 lence. Hitherto she had taken but a 
 limited interest in what was ffoina; on ; but 
 now she became the most prominent figure 
 in the group — whilst the mother dusted a 
 chair for the welcome stranger with her 
 apron, and the guidman welcomed him 
 with a — 
 
 " Come away, Willie Wilson, an' tak a 
 seat. The nicht's gay dark an' dreary. 
 
 I wonder hoo ye cleared the Whitstane 
 Cleugh and the Side Scaur, man, on sic 
 an eerie nicht.'' 
 
 '' Indeed," responded the stranger, 
 casting a look, in the meantime, towards 
 the guidman's buxom, and, indeed, lovely 
 daughter — " indeed, it's an unco fearfu 
 nicht — sic a mist and sic a cauld I hae 
 seldom if ever encountered ; but I dinna 
 ken hoo it was — I couldna rest at hame 
 till I had tellt ye a' the news o' the last 
 Langhom market." 
 
 " Ay, ay," interrupted the guidwife ; 
 " the last Langhom market, man, is an 
 auld tale noo, I trow. Na, na, yer mither's 
 son camna here on sic a nicht, and at sic 
 an hour, on sic an unmeaning errand" — 
 finishing her sentence, however, by a whis- 
 per into Willie's ear, which brought a 
 deeper red into his cheek, and seemed to 
 operate in a similar manner on the appa- 
 rently deeply engaged daughter. 
 
 " But, Watty," continued my fair pur- 
 chaser, " you must give me this Bible a 
 little cheaper — it's owre dear, man — heard 
 ever onybody o' five white shillings gien 
 for a Bible, and it only a New Testament, 
 after a' ? — it's baith a sin an' a shame, 
 Watty !" 
 
 After some suitable reluctance, I was 
 on the point of reducing the price by a 
 single sixpence, when Willie Wilson ad- 
 vanced towards the pack, and, at once 
 taking up the book and the conversa- 
 tion — 
 
 " Owi'e dear, Jessie, ray dear ! — it's 
 the word o' God, ye ken — his ain precious 
 word ; and I'll e'en mak ye a present o' 
 the book, at Watty's ain price. Ye ken 
 he maun live, as we a' do, by his trade." 
 
 The money was instantly paid down 
 from a purse pretty well filled ; for Wil- 
 liam Wilson was the son of a wealthy and 
 much respected sheep-farmer in the neigh- 
 borhood, and had had his name once call- 
 ed in the kirk, along with that of " Janet 
 Harkness of Burnfoot, both in this 
 parish." 
 
 " Hoot, noo, bairns," rejoined the mo- t 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STORM. 
 
 575 
 
 ther ; " ye 're baith wrang — that Bible 
 "winua do ava. Ye maun hae a big ha' 
 Bible to take the bulk wi', and worship 
 the God o' yer fathers nicht an' morning, 
 as they hae dune afore ye ; and Watty 
 will bring ye ane frae Glasgow the next 
 time he comes roun ; and it will, maybe, 
 usefu, ye ken, in anither way.'''' 
 
 " Tout, mither, wi' yer nonsense," in- 
 terrupted the conscious bride ; " I never 
 liked to see my name and age marked and 
 pointed out to onybody on oor muckle 
 Bible ; sae just baud yer tongue, mither, 
 and tak a present frae William and ?7ie," 
 added she, blushing deeply, " o' that big 
 printed Testament. The minister, ye ken, 
 seldom meddles wi' the auld Bible, unless 
 it be a bit o' the psalms ; and yer een now 
 are no sae gleg as they were whan ye were 
 married to my faither there." 
 
 The father, overcome by this well-timed 
 and well-directed evidence of goodness, 
 piety, and filial affection, rose from his 
 seat on the lang settle, and with tears in 
 his eyes, pronounced a most fervent bene- 
 diction over the shoulders of his child. 
 
 " O God in heaven, bless and preserve 
 my dear Jessie!" said he — his child's 
 tears now falling fast and faster. '' Oh, 
 may the God of thy fathers make thee 
 happy — thee and thine — him there and 
 his ! — and when thy mother's grey hairs 
 and mine are laid and hid in the dust, 
 mayst thou have children, such as thy fond 
 and dutiful self, to bless and comfort, to re- 
 joice and support thy heart !" 
 
 There was not, by this time, a dry eye 
 in the family ; and, as a painful silence 
 was on the point of succeeding to this 
 outbreaking of nature, the venerable pa- 
 rent slowly and deliberately took down 
 the big ha' Bible from its bole in the wall, 
 and, placing it on the lang-settle table, he 
 proceeded to family worship with the usu- 
 al solemn prefatory annunciation — '^ Let 
 tis worship God." 
 
 Love, filial affection, and piety — what 
 a noble, what a beautiful triumvirate ! 
 By means of these, Scotland has rendered 
 
 herself comparatively great, independent, 
 and happy. These are the graces which, 
 in beautiful union, have protected her 
 liberties, sweetened her enjoyments, and 
 exalted her head amongst the nations, and 
 which, over all, have cast an expression 
 and a feature irresistibly winning and na- 
 tionally characteristic. It is over such 
 scenes as the kitchen fireside of Burnfoot, 
 now presented, that the soul hovers with 
 ever-awakening and ever-intenser delight ; 
 that, even amidst the coldness, and uncon- 
 cern, and irreligion of an iron age, the 
 mind, at least at intervals, is redeemed 
 into ecstacy, and feels, in spite of habit, 
 and example, and deadened apprehen 
 sions, that there is a beauty in pure and 
 virgin love, a depth in genuine and spon- 
 taneous filial regard, and an impulse in 
 communion with Him that is most high, 
 which, even when taken separately, are 
 hallowing, sacred, and elevating ; but 
 which, when blended and softened down 
 into one great and leading feature, prove 
 incontestibly that man is, in his origin and 
 unalloyed nature, but a little lower than 
 the angels. 
 
 Such was the aspect of matters in this 
 sequestered and sanctified dwelling, when 
 the house seemed, all at once, to be smit- 
 ten, like Job's, at the four corners. The 
 soot fell in showers into the grate ; the 
 rafters creaked ; the dust descended , 
 every door in the house rattled on its 
 sneck and hinges ; and the very dogs 
 sprung at once from their slumbers and 
 barked. There was something so awful 
 in the suddenness and violence of the com- 
 motion, that the prayer was abruptly and 
 suddenly brought to a conclusion. 
 
 " Ay, fearfu, sirs V were John Hark- 
 ness' first words when springing to his 
 feet ; ^' but there is an awfa nicht. Open 
 the outer door, Jamie, and let us see what 
 it is like." The outer door was opened; 
 but the drift burst in with such a suffocat- 
 ing swirl, that a strong lad who encoun- 
 tered it, reeled and gasped for breath. 
 
 " The hogs !" exclaimed the guidman, 
 
576 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 '' and the gimmers !— where did ye leave 
 them, Jamie ?" 
 
 *' In Capleslacks," was the answer, " by 
 east the Dod. The wind has set in frac 
 the nor'-cast, and fifty score o' sheep, if 
 this continue, will never see the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 But what was to be done .'* 
 
 " The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,'' 
 
 and the whole atmosphere was one almost 
 solid wreath of penetrating snow ; when 
 you thrust forth your hand into the open 
 air, it was as if you had perforated an ice- 
 berg. Burnfoot stands at the convergence 
 of two mountain glens, adown one of 
 which the tempest came as from a funnel 
 — collected, compressed, irresistible. 
 There was a momentary look of sus- 
 pense — every one eyeing the rest with 
 an expression of indecision and utter 
 helplessness. The young couple, by 
 some law of affinity, stood together in 
 a corner. The shepherd lads, with 
 Jamie Hogg at their head, were em- 
 ployed in adjusting plaids to their per- 
 sons. The guidman had already resumed 
 his leggings, and the dogs were all ex- 
 ceedingly excited — amazed at this unex- 
 pected movement, but perfectly resolved 
 to do their duty. 
 
 " Jamie," said the guidman, '' you and 
 I will try to mak oor way by the Head 
 Scaur to Capleyetts, where the main hirsel 
 was left ; and Will, Tam, and Geordie 
 will see after the hogs and gimmers ayont 
 the Dod." 
 
 " I, too," exclaimed a voice from the 
 corner, over which, however, a fair hand 
 was pressed, and which was therefore but 
 indistinctly heard — " I will — (canna ye 
 let me speak, Jessie !) — I will not, I shall 
 not be left behind — I will accompany the 
 guidman, and do what I can to seek and 
 to save." 
 
 " Indeed, and indeed, my dear James, 
 ye can do nae guid — ye dinna ken the 
 grun like my faither ; and there's mony a 
 kittle step, forby the Head Scaur ; and, 
 
 the Lord be wi' us ! on sic a nicht too." 
 So saying, she clasped her betrothed firmly 
 around the neck, and absolutely compelled 
 him to relinquish his purpose. Having 
 gained this one object, the fair and affec- 
 tionate bride rushed across the room to 
 her father, and falling down on her knees, 
 grasped him by the legs, and exclaimed — 
 
 " O raither, mither ! come and help 
 me ! faither, my dear faither, let Jamie 
 Hogg gang, and the rest ; they are young, 
 ye ken, and as weel acquent as yersel wi' 
 the ly o' the glens ; but this is no a nicht 
 for the faither o' a family to risk his life 
 to save his substance. O faither, faither I 
 I am soon, ye ken, to leave you and bonny 
 Burnfoot — grant me, oh, grant me this 
 one, this last request !" 
 
 The mother sat all this while, wringing 
 her hands and exclaiminsj — 
 
 " Ay, ay, Jenny, get him to stay, get 
 him to stay !" 
 
 The father answered not a word, but, 
 making a sign to Hogg, and whistling on 
 Help, and at the same time kissing his 
 now all but fainting child, he rushed out 
 of the door, (as Mrs. Harkness said,) 
 "like a fey man," and he and his com- 
 panion, with a suitable accompaniment of 
 dogs, were almost instantly invisible. The 
 three other lads, suitably armed and ac- 
 companied, followed the example set to 
 them ; and tlie guidwife, the two lovers, 
 five or six younger branches, and the fe- 
 male servants of the family, with myself, 
 remained at home in a state of anxiety 
 and suspense which can be better conceiv- 
 ed than expressed. 
 
 " The varnished clock that clicked behind the door." 
 
 with a force and a stroke loud and painful 
 in the extreme, struck first ten, then 
 eleven, then twelve ; but there was no re- 
 turn : again and again were voices heard 
 commingling with the tempest's rush ; 
 ac;ain and acjain did the outer door seem 
 to move backwards on its hinges ; but no- 
 thing entered, save the shrill pipe of the 
 blast, accompanied by the comminuted 
 drift, which penetrated through every 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STORM. 
 
 577 
 
 seam and cranny. This state of uncer- 
 tainty was awful — even the ascertained 
 reality of death, partial or universal, had 
 perhaps less of soul-benumbing cold in it 
 than this inconceivable suspense. It re- 
 quired Willie Wilson's utmost efforts and 
 mine to keep the frantic woman from mad- 
 ly rushing into the drift ; and the voice of 
 lamentation was sad and loud amongst the 
 children and the servant lasses — each of 
 the latter class lamented, indeed, the fate 
 of all, but there was always an under 
 prayer offered up for the safety of Geor- 
 die, or Will, or Jamie, in particular. At 
 last the three lads who had encompassed 
 the Dod, arrived — alive, indeed, but al- 
 most breathless and frozen to death. They 
 had, however, surmounted incredible diffi- 
 culties, and had succeeded in placing their 
 hii'sel in a position of comparative securi- 
 ty ; but where were Jamie Hogg and the 
 guidman ? The violence of the storm had 
 nothing abated, the snow was every mo- 
 ment accumulating, and the danger and 
 difficulty increasing tenfold. Spirits, heat, 
 and friction gradually restored the three 
 lads to their senses, and to the kind at- 
 tentions of their several favorites of the 
 female order ; but there sat the mother 
 and daughter, whilst the father was either, 
 in all probability, dead or dying. The 
 very thought was distracting ; and, ac- 
 cordingly, the young bride, now turning 
 to her lover with a look of inexpressible 
 anguish, exclaimed — 
 
 " Willie ! my ain dear Willie ! ye 
 maun gang, after a' — ye maun gang this 
 instant" ( Willie was on his feet and plaid- 
 ed whilst yet the sentence was unfinished), 
 " and try to rescue my dear, dear faither 
 from this awfu and untimely end ; but take 
 care, oh, take care, o' the big scaur, and 
 keep far west by Caplecleuch, and maybe 
 ye '11 meet them coming back that way." 
 These last words were lost in the drift, 
 whilst Willie Wilson, with his faithful 
 follower. Rover, were penetrating, and 
 flouncing, and floundering their way to- 
 wards the place pointed out. 
 
 VOL. II. ''^ 
 
 In about half-an-hour after this, the howl 
 and scratch of a dog were heard at the 
 door-back, and Help immediately rushed 
 in, the welcome forerunner of his master 
 and Hogg. They had, indeed, had a fear- 
 ful struggle, and fearful wanderings ; but, 
 in endeavoring to avoid the dangerous, 
 because precipitous Head Scaur, they had 
 wandered from the track, and from i}iQ 
 object of their travel ; and, after having 
 been inclined, once or twice, to lie down 
 and take a rest — (the deceitful messenger 
 of death) — they had at last got upon the 
 track of Caple Water ; and, by keeping to 
 its windings— which they had often traced, 
 at the risk of being drowned — they had at 
 least weathered the old cham'er, the byre, 
 and peat-stack, and were now, thank God ! 
 within " bigget wa's." 
 
 But where, alas ! was W^ilHe Wilson .? 
 Him, in consequence of their deviations, 
 they had missed ; and over him, thus ex- 
 posed, the tempest was still renewing, at 
 intervals, its hurricane gusts. There was 
 one scream heard, such as would have 
 penetrated the heart of a tiger, and all 
 was still. There she lay, the beauteous, 
 but now marble bride ; her head reposing 
 on her mother's lap — her lips pale as the 
 snow-drop— her eyes fixed and soulless — 
 her cheek without a tint — and her mouth 
 half-open and breathless. Long, long was 
 the withdrawment ; again and again was 
 the dram-glass applied to the mouth, to 
 catch the first expiration of returnino- 
 breath ; ere the frame began to quiver, the 
 hands to move, the lips and cheeks to 
 color, and the eyes to indicate the ap- 
 proaching return to reason and perception. 
 
 " I have killed him, I have killed him !" 
 were the first frantic accents. " I have 
 murdered, murdered my dear Willie ! It 
 was me that sent him — forced him — com- 
 pelled him out — out into the drift — the 
 cold, cold drift. Away!" added the ma- 
 niac — " away ! I'll go after him — I'll 
 perish with him — where he lies, there will 
 I lie, and there will I be buried. What ! 
 is there none of ye that will make an ef 
 
578 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS, 
 
 '/ 
 
 fort to save a perishing — a choking — oh, 
 my God ! a suffocating man ?" 
 
 Hereupon she again sank backwards, 
 /ind was prevented from falling by the 
 arms of a father. 
 
 " O my child !" said parental love and 
 affection — " O my dear wean ! — oh, be 
 patient ! — God is guid — He has preserved 
 MS all — He will not desert him in the hour 
 of his need — He neither slumbers nor 
 sleeps — His hand is not shortened that He 
 cannot save — and what He can, He will — 
 He never deserted any that trusted in him, 
 my child ! my bairn — my first born ! — 
 be patient — be patient. There — there — 
 there is a scratch at the door-back — it is 
 Rover." 
 
 And to be sure Rover it was ; but Ro- 
 ver in despair. His faithful companion 
 and friend only entered the house to so- 
 licit immediate aid — he ran round and 
 round, looking up into the face of every 
 one with an expression of the most im- 
 ploring anxiety. The poor frantic girl 
 sprung from her father's embrace, and 
 clung to the neck of the well-known cur — 
 she absolutely kissed him — (oh, to what 
 will not love, omnipotent, virtuous love, 
 descend !) — then rising in renewed recol- 
 lection, she sat herself down on the long 
 settle beside her father, and burst into 
 loud and passionate grief. 
 
 It was now manifest to all that some- 
 thing must be attempted, else the young 
 farmer must perish. Hogg, though aw- 
 fully exhausted, was the first to volunteer 
 a new excursion. The whole band were 
 at once on their feet ; but Jessie now 
 clung to her father, as she had formerly 
 done to her lover, and would not let him 
 go — indeed, the guidman was in no dan- 
 ger of putting his purpose into effect, for 
 he could scarcely stand on his feet. He 
 sat, or rather fell down, consequently, 
 beside his daughter, and continued in 
 constant prayer and supplication at the 
 throne of grace. The daughter listened, 
 and said she was comforted — the voyagers 
 were again on their way — the tempest had 
 
 somewhat abated — the moon had once or 
 twine shone out — and there was now a 
 greater chance of success in their under- 
 taking. 
 
 How we all contrived to exist during an 
 interval of about two hours, I cannot say ; 
 but this I know, that the endurance of 
 this second trial was worse than the first, 
 to all but the sweet bride herself. Her 
 mind had now taken a more calm and 
 religious view of the case. She repeated, 
 at intervals and pauses in her father's 
 ejaculatory prayer — 
 
 " Yes — oh, yes — His will — His holy 
 will be done ! The Lord giveth and the 
 Lord taketh away — blessed be the name 
 of the Lord for ever ! We shall meet 
 again — oh, yes — where the weary are at 
 rest. 
 
 " ' A few short years of evil past, 
 We reach the happy shore 
 V/here death-divided friends at last 
 Shall meet to part no more.' " 
 
 father, is not that a gracious saying, 
 and worthy of all acceptation !" 
 
 At length the door opened, and in 
 walked William Wilson. 
 
 The reader needs scarcely to be told 
 that the sagacious dog had left his master 
 floundered, and unable to extricate him- 
 self in a snow wreath ; that the same faith- 
 ful guide had taken the searchers to the 
 spot, where they found Wilson just in the 
 act of falling into a sleep — from which, 
 indeed, but for the providential sagacity 
 of his dog, he had never wakened ; and 
 that, by means of some spirits which they 
 had taken in a bottle, they completely 
 restored and conducted him home. 
 
 " Lives there one with soul so dead" 
 
 as not now to image the happy meeting 
 betwixt bride and bridegroom ; and, above 
 all, the influence which this trial had upon 
 the happiness and religious character of 
 theu' future married and prosperous lot .'' 
 
 It is, indeed, long since I have laid 
 aside the pack — to which, after a good 
 education, I had taken from a wandering 
 propensity — and taken up my residence 
 
FALSEHOOD REPROVED. 
 
 579 
 
 in the flourishing village of Thornhill, 
 Dumfriesshire ; living, at first, on the pro- 
 fits of mj shop, and now retired on my 
 little, but, to me ample competency ; but 
 I still have great pleasure in paying a 
 
 yearly visit to my friends of Mitchelslacks, 
 and in recalling with them, over a com- 
 fortable meal, the interesting incidents of 
 the snow storm, 1794. 
 
 FALSEHOOD REPROVED. 
 
 The following anecdote of the Rebellion 
 was at one time current in Maxwellton, 
 and generally believed. — A widow of the 
 name of Janet Brown, residing there, 
 some connection of the Orchardtowns in 
 the Stewartry, thought that she could not 
 do justice to the love she bore the " bonny 
 Prince" otherwise than by sending her son 
 — a young man, a slater by trade, and 
 called John after his father, who followed 
 the same occupation — to fight for the 
 descendant of our old kings, and help to 
 place him on the throne. The young 
 man, who neither felt the enthusiasm, nor 
 could perceive the rationale of the feeling 
 with which his mother was inspired, felt 
 no great love for the task ; but, having 
 been bribed by a small sum of money 
 given him by Sir Thomas Maxwell, and 
 blown up with large hopes of rising to 
 eminence in the event of the Prince's 
 success, he agreed to put on the bonnet 
 and badge, and to " follow Prince Char- 
 lie." The new-born valor of the slater, 
 like that of all the artisans who espoused 
 the same cause, was destined to a severe 
 trial and a rapid decrease. At the battle 
 of Culloden he fought at first with some 
 spirit, and then fled, leaving all his accou- 
 trements, with the exception of a small 
 dagger, which he retained for the purpose 
 of self-defence, in a field not far from the 
 scene of his disgrace. The impetus of 
 terror had been so strong, that he had 
 gone over a score of miles befi^re he began 
 
 to reflect on the best means of escaping 
 from his foes ; and now he was satisfied 
 that the advantage he possessed from the 
 nature of his occupation — the capability 
 of walking or sleeping on the house-tops, 
 like the Pharisees of old — might be 
 turned into the means of his salvation. 
 Without stopping he hurried on to Max- 
 wellton, where he arrived about nightfall, 
 and his familiarity with the roof of the 
 house where his mother lived — occupying 
 only a small garret, from the necessity of 
 her limited means — suggested that situa- 
 tion as the best calculated for concealment, 
 until the rage of pursuit was over, and he 
 could again follow his ordinary avocations. 
 Getting unobserved to the back of the 
 house, he, by means of a skylight, which 
 opened from the top of the circular stair- 
 case, got to the roof, where he felt himself 
 perfectly at home, and in the enjoyment 
 of as much security as if he had been in 
 the back settlements of America. By 
 taking ofi" his shoes, and walking lightly 
 along the slates, he could look down on 
 his aged mother, who was, doubtless occu- 
 pied with thoughts of her son, who was 
 fighting at Culloden, or perhaps lying dead 
 on the bloody field ; but Brown knew the 
 nature of his parent too well to entrust 
 her with the secret of his place of con- 
 cealment — a fact which she would have 
 told instantly to her neighbors, with that 
 addition which would have made it go like 
 wildfire, that it was a great secret, and 
 
580 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 was not to be divulged. His self-denial 
 in this respect was, however, wonderful, 
 considering that he had scarcely tasted 
 meat since he came from Culloden, and 
 was therefore laboring under hunger, cold, 
 and fatigue, all of which might have been 
 removed or ameliorated, by the assistance 
 of his mother, and the refuge of her 
 dwelling, into which he might have 
 descended through the skylight. If she 
 was ignorant of his proceedings, he was as 
 ignorant of hers ; for she had been, during 
 the day and evening, busily engaged in 
 making the people believe that her son had 
 not engaged actively for the Prince, but 
 had repented and returned to his allegi- 
 ance to King George. Several ofl&cers 
 from Dumfries had called at her house 
 with a view to catch the rebel, and at the 
 very moment when Brown was looking 
 dehberately down through the skylight 
 window, calculating how he could reaeh 
 with his dagger a tempting loaf of bread 
 that lay on a shelf, he saw enter a sheriff's 
 beagle, who soon engaged with his parent 
 in earnest conversa^tion. The officer 
 insisted that her son was in the house, and 
 she, though a godly woman, not only 
 denied that he was there, but alleged (lay- 
 ing her hand on her big Bible), that he 
 had never engaged in the Rebellion at all. 
 This act, on the part of his parent, aston^ 
 ished the son : his mother had told a lie, 
 though all the energies of her life had 
 been directed towards inculcating good 
 principles on her son, and, above all, a 
 love of strict truth in everything he said 
 or did. So much had he been impressed 
 with the importance of veracity, that he 
 himself, if taken, would not have denied 
 (even if that would have saved him), that 
 he had been in the rebel ranks ; and yet 
 the very parent who had done him this 
 good service, had swerved from her own 
 principles, and sealed a lie by an appeal 
 to holy writ. The circumstance could 
 only be accounted for by the love she 
 bore to him ; but it is not too much to 
 say, that it produced to him as much 
 
 uneasiness as his own danger. Continu- 
 ing his examination, he saw the officer 
 depart ; and, in a short time afterwards, 
 the good widow, on retiring to bed, re- 
 quired to perform her evening devotion. 
 She got upon her knees for this purpose ; 
 but the pangs of remorse, for the false- 
 hood she had told, prevented her for a 
 time from uttering her prayer. At last 
 she succeeded in getting utterance, and 
 began to ask forgiveness of heaven for the 
 great sin she had committed that night, in 
 denying that her son had engaged in the 
 Rebellion ; she then proceeded to return 
 thanks for the daily bread with which, 
 notwithstanding of her sins, she had been 
 blessed ; and strongly, and with tears, 
 declared her utter unworthiness of the 
 gift. She had proceeded so far, when as 
 she turned round her eyes, filled with 
 repentant tears, she saw that very loaf for 
 which she had returned and was still 
 returning thanks, in the act of gradually 
 moving from the shelf towards the sky- 
 light, and in a moment disappear, without 
 the assistance of mortal hand, or any other 
 lifting or suspending power ! In what 
 manner could heaven better declare that 
 her repentance was not registered above ? 
 The gift was taken back to the place from 
 whence it came, because she had lied, and 
 attempted inconsistently to return thanks 
 for that of which she was so unworthy. 
 The celestial light broke in upon her in a 
 moment. Starting to her feet, she flew 
 out of the house ; and Brown sat quietly 
 down on the roof to enjoy the loaf, which, 
 with his dagger, he had removed from the 
 shelf for the purpose of allaying his 
 hunger. He remarked that his mother did 
 not return to her house that night ; and, 
 suspecting that he was in dangerous 
 quarters, descended in the morning, and 
 removed himself to a greater distance. 
 After the heat of pursuit was over, he 
 returned ; and heard " many a time and 
 oft," his mother relate how heaven had 
 interfered to punish the crime she had 
 committed, in denying, on the faith of 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 581 
 
 holy writ, that her son had been engaged 
 in the ranks of Prince Charles. Brown 
 was too prudent to say a word of the true 
 
 cause ; for, a great lover of truth himself, 
 he was pained by the falsehood of his mo- 
 ther, which had been so strangely cured. 
 
 -^^^►•^ 
 
 DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 We see so many examples of the extraor- 
 dinary discovery of evil designs attempted 
 to be concealed by all the craft of cunning 
 man, that it is impossible to doubt, even 
 with the many cases before us of the ap- 
 parent success of criminal schemes, that 
 it is a part of God's providence to lay 
 open the secret actings — nay, often the 
 secret thoughts — of those who contravene 
 his laws. The modes by which this pur- 
 pose is fulfilled, are as various as the de- 
 sisrns themselves : and though some of 
 them may not appear to be consistent with 
 the seriousness and gravity of an avenging 
 and punishing retribution, we are not, on 
 that account, to doubt their authority or 
 undervalue theu* eflfect. In elucidation of 
 this statement, we have a case to record 
 of an extraordinary and ludicrous disco- 
 very of roguery, which, as well on aecount 
 of its truth, as the moral which, amidst all 
 its grotesqueness of humor, it inculcates, 
 we cannot withhold from the public. An 
 incorrect and unauthenticated version of 
 the story may probably have found its 
 way to the public ear ; but this, in place 
 of forming any reason against our publish- 
 ing it, renders our exposition of the real 
 truth itself the more necessary and the 
 more acceptable. 
 
 In that manufacturing town which has 
 lately risen to considerable eminence, 
 called Dunfermline, there lived, some 
 time ago, a person of the name of Duncan 
 Schulebred, by trade a weaver — or, as he 
 chose rather to be called, a manufacturer, 
 a term which the inhabitants love to apply 
 
 to every man who can boast the property 
 of a loom and its restless appendage. We 
 believe the people of that town to be as 
 honest and industrious as those of any 
 mercantile place in the kingdom ; but 
 they have too much good sense to think 
 of claiming for their entire community, a 
 total exemption from the inroads of dis- 
 honesty and deceit — vices which prevail in 
 every corner of this land. Unhappily, 
 the individual we have mentioned, had 
 allowed himself to become a slave to those 
 evil propensities which are concerned in 
 the collecting together of ill-gotten wealth, 
 and never left any feasible plan unat- 
 tempted, which might present any chance 
 of gratifying the ruling passion by which 
 he was mastered. He was a little man, 
 with a fl.orid complexion, and the small 
 twinkling eye which almost invariably ac- 
 companies cunning. His walk was that 
 of a man accustomed to carry under his 
 left arm a web of huckaback, and in his 
 right a staff ellwand ; and his style of 
 speech, conciliating and persuasive, was 
 derived from the habit of wheedlino; cus- 
 tomers into exorbitant terms. He was a 
 great coward, as well physical as moral — 
 the consequence, doubtless, of being a dis- 
 honest trader. Too contemptible to be 
 hated, perhaps his greatest enemy was his 
 own conscience, of which he stood in such 
 terrible awe, that his wife was often oblig- 
 ed, during the dark hours of the reign of 
 that mysterious power, to rise and light a 
 lamp for the purpose of exorcising the 
 spirit which, seated on his heart, tormented 
 
582 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 him with the gnawing inflictions of its 
 pain. 
 
 This power of his conscience had hither- 
 to, however, been unahle to prevent him 
 from using his short ellwand, and acting 
 dishonestly. The moment he got into 
 daylight and active life, he, like all other 
 cowards, despised the enemy from which 
 he thouofht himself at the time safe. In a 
 strong-minded man, conscience produces 
 resolution ; in a weak, it gives rise merely 
 to fears and vacillation. It is not often 
 that greedy, cunning men are given to 
 intoxication ; yet we are obliged to add 
 this vice to the character of Duncan 
 Schulebred, who (exhibiting, however, the 
 one vice in the other), never failed to get 
 intoxicated, if he could effect his purpose 
 at the expense of his neighbor — a result 
 he often achieved, by leaving the tavern 
 (after he had got enough) on pretence of 
 returning in a few minutes to the company 
 of his unsuspecting victim. 
 
 Like many others of the peripatetic 
 manufacturers of Dunfermline, this indi- 
 vidual sold through the country the cloth 
 he fabricated at home : so that, for one 
 half (the winter) of the year, he sat, and 
 for the other (the summer) he travelled. 
 By the same means and ratio, he was one 
 half of the year sober and the other drunk ; 
 for he could fleece no pot companion in 
 his native town, where he was known ; 
 while, throughout the country, he could 
 walk deliberately out of every ale-house 
 on the road, and leave his travelling com- 
 panions to pay for his drink, in exchange 
 for that society which they had enjoyed. 
 
 In the course of his journey, this indi- 
 vidual had occasion, during the latter end 
 of a summer, to be in Edinburgh, where 
 he usually sold a considerable part of his 
 stock. During the day, he had been in 
 treaty with a person of the name of An- 
 drew Gavin, a pettifogging writer, residing 
 near the Luckenbooths, for the sale of a 
 web of linen, which the latter (like a trout 
 with a bait on a clear day), approached 
 and examined, and looked at and felt, and 
 
 yet still seemed irresolute in his determi- 
 nation to be caught. The weaver's 
 twinkling eye saw and admired the gud- 
 geon ; the linen (to a safe extent) was 
 unrolled, its texture felt with a '^ miller's 
 thumb," its qualities extolled, and its 
 price wondered at by him who fixed it and 
 smiled inwardly at his profit and the trick 
 by which he realized it. The unwary 
 purchaser, though a man of the law, was 
 at last caught — the bargain was struck, 
 the money paid ; and all that remained 
 was that the seller (in addition to cheating 
 him in the manner to be explained) should, 
 after his usual practice, get drunk at the 
 expense of his customer. 
 
 The two parties accordingly repaired to 
 a tavern known by the name of the Bar- 
 leycorn, where they sat down deliberately, 
 to indulge in a deep potation — the one 
 (the customer) luxuriating in the idea of 
 getting " glorious " at the cost of the seller, 
 who had generously, and in consideration 
 of his custom, agreed to pay all ; while 
 the latter secretly chuckled at the idea of 
 leaving the writer ( who was known to the 
 tavern keeper) to liquidate the debt in- 
 curred by his liquidation. Both the com- 
 panions were thus happy, though from 
 very different causes ; and their happiness 
 only impelled them to further gratifica- 
 tions, -^ith the view of augmenting it — 
 such is the danger that attends an eleva- 
 tion of the spirits ; and such is the insa- 
 tiable thirst for happiness in man, that^ 
 after the physical thirst is slaked, the 
 moral appetite must be ended by a surfeit. 
 
 In the midst of the orgies of these two 
 worthies, the customer, who had a humor 
 of his own, took many '' rises" out of his 
 companion, who submitted to his fan, in 
 consideration of his determination to leave 
 him to pay "the score," which would put 
 " the lauo-h on the other side." 
 
 " There's a great difference between 
 our townsmen o' Edinburgh, and yours o' 
 Dumfarlan," said the writer. 
 
 " Very great," replied Duncan ; '' but 
 I winna say on what side the advantage 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 583 
 
 lies. We're at least a' honest men on oor 
 side o' the water." 
 
 " Ye're mair than honest,'' replied An- 
 drew, touched by the insinuation — " ye're 
 prudent. Your maxim, I understand, is, 
 ' Flee laigh and ye '11 no fa' far' — a sayin 
 weel exemplified in the canny, quiet way 
 your weavers mak what they ca' their for- 
 tunes, and then look aboot them for what 
 they denominate, in their conceit, an es- 
 tate. Everything's dune in your toun by 
 hatter. Ye batter yer claith, ye batter 
 yersels (wi' oor national dish, three times 
 a-day),and the ^ batteries ^'^ pendente Utej 
 that come to our court prove how ye bat- 
 tor the lieges." 
 
 " Ye canna say I hae either battered or 
 buttered you, at least," said Duncan. 
 
 " The washin will try that," replied 
 Andrew ; " but dinna put me oot o' the 
 thread o' my discourse. By twenty years 
 shuttlin and shufflin,* ye contrive to scrape 
 thegither what in your phrase makes a 
 fortune — say maybe twa thoosand — and, 
 curious aneugh, there are scattered round 
 your toun sae mony cocklairdships (mair 
 than ye'll find again in a' Scotland), and 
 yer ambition and the state o' the country 
 in this way sae weel agree, that every in- 
 dependent weaver (manufacturer, I mean) 
 is just as sure to become a laird, as he is 
 sure, in the coorse o' time, to dee." 
 
 " The lawin will mak amends for this," 
 muttered Duncan to himself. " And 
 when did you ever hear o' an Edinburgh 
 merchant buying an estate ? A' their 
 property consists o' a front door, and a 
 brass plate, which their servants keep 
 scrubbin at every day, till it shines like 
 that they hae sae little o' within — gowd. 
 They may sometimes buy an estate and 
 borrow the price ; but, if they do, the 
 
 *We are not ansvv^erable for the statements of 
 the interlocutors incur tales; but we may here 
 state that the tradesmen of Dunfermline are as 
 honest and industrious a set of individuals as are 
 to be found in the kingdom. But, after all, we 
 think Edinburgh comes off second best. — Ed. 
 
 ' W. S.' whose plate is on the next door, 
 will sune hae a hornin on the bond." 
 
 " It will at least be an es^aie," respond- 
 ed the Edinburgher, ^' an' no a mailin, fit 
 only to yield room aneugh for its master's 
 grave. Then ye're no content wi' the 
 denomination o' sic a man o' sic a place — 
 as, for instance, when ye buy your estate, 
 ye winna be content wi' Duncan Schule- 
 bred o' Wabha', or Mr. Schulebred o' 
 Wabha', or even Duncan Schulebred, Esq., 
 o' Wabha', but, like the Lords, wha carry 
 the name o' their estates, you would be 
 ' Wabha' itseP, simply and withoot appen- 
 dage. Ha ! ha ! ' Wabha' !' yet, it is just as 
 guid as Foxha', or Shuttleha', or Shuttle- 
 crief, or Craigdookie, or Cockairnie, or 
 Buchlyvie, or Pitbauchlie, or ony ither o' 
 the cocklairdships that stand on the Fife 
 horizon, waitin for the stoppin o' the Dum- 
 farlan shuttle, the sign o' a made fortune, 
 and o' the determination o' the manufac- 
 turer to change his name for the proud de- 
 signation o' his estate. Ha ! ha ! is it no 
 excellent, Duncan, to think o' twa weav- 
 ers that used to sit side by side, drivin their 
 shuttles on the Pittencrief road, meetin, ten 
 years after, and usin the salutation — ' Hoc 
 do you do, Pitbauchlie P — ^ Very well, I 
 thank ye, Craigdookie ! We never think 
 o' ca'in a man Niddry, or Dreghorn, or 
 Trinity, or the like. The modesty o' the 
 folk on this side o' the water forbids a' 
 thae absurd fashions." 
 
 " An afiront, or an insult," muttered 
 Duncan, " is easily washed doun, if ye use 
 the insolent varlet's ain liquor in the ope- 
 ration. Now, sir," said he out, " since 
 ye hae abused oor guid toun, will ye tell 
 me this — Whether is the driven o' your 
 lawyers' pens or oor weavers' shuttles, 
 maist for the guid o' this auncient land ? 
 The ane maks a ravelled wab to catch un- 
 wary clients, and the ither maks guid 
 linen for the backs o' the honest men and 
 bonny lasses o' Scotland, as weel as for 
 the fat sides o' the beef-fed yeomen and 
 braw queans o' England. Edinburgh robs 
 Scotland, Dumfarlan robes it — a pun I 
 
584 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 canna resist, notwithstandin o' my dislike 
 o' that low sort o' humor. We are the 
 linen.y you (that is, you writers) are the 
 little blood- sucking varlets that live on't, 
 and suck the bluid o' the wearers." 
 
 " There's but little bluid comes out o' 
 batter,^^ replied the angry writer, who 
 noticed triumph in Duncan's twinkling 
 eye. " We writers would starve, if we 
 had nae ither bluid to suck but that o' the 
 white-faced liver-lipped propellers o' the 
 shuttle. A fat law plea, we say, never 
 comes owre the water. Ye're owre far 
 north, and far beyond the reach o' the 
 lang arm o' justice. If ye ever fill her 
 scales ava, it is wi' the rump or fag-end o' 
 a ten years' multiplepoinden, whar there 
 are sae mony claimants, riders^ and com- 
 petitors, that ye fa' oot and fecht amang 
 yersels, and then come to us to mend yer 
 broken heads ; but the bluid is a' oot o' 
 them before they are trusted in oor c/taw- 
 
 This wordy war only made the writer 
 and the weaver more thirsty ; every argu- 
 ment was followed by a draught, which 
 slaked at once both thirst and revenge — 
 each thinking that he was drinking at the 
 expense of the other. The more they 
 drank the warmer they grew in defence of 
 their respective towns, till they came to 
 that condition of topers, when, by the 
 mere operation of their potations, they 
 became unable even to dispute. All con- 
 firmed drunkards have in their drunken- 
 ness some ruling principle, which, how- 
 ever far gone they may be, regulates their 
 wayward movements. The writer's habit 
 was to sit when he thought he could not 
 stand — a principle which many sober men 
 might do well to adopt. The weaver's, 
 again, was to walk when he wished not to 
 stand the reckoning — a prudent maxim 
 which never left him, even when all other 
 ideas had been washed from his brain. It 
 was now about one o'clock in the morning, 
 and they had drank so much that neither 
 of them could tell (for neither had any 
 interest in a matter which did not seem to 
 
 concern his pocket) how much would re- 
 quire to be paid ; it was enough for Dun- 
 can, that he knew that something (and 
 not little) must be paid — and now was the 
 time for escape. 
 
 " We were speakin o' the law," said he, 
 winking with cunning, and hiccuping with 
 drink — " I fancy they never refuse siller 
 at the bar here (hiccup), ony mair than 
 they do in Dumfarlan. There is only this 
 difference atween the twa — that the folk 
 wha resort to your bar pay when they en- 
 ter, we (hiccup) pay as we gae oot. Rest 
 yersel there till I cast up the bill, and if I 
 hae ony plea wi' the landlord, ye can come 
 and plead it." 
 
 " That's kind, Duncan," said the writer 
 — ^' it will be the only plea I ever had 
 frae a Dumfarlan weaver. If I gain it, 
 we maun hae a — anither gill." 
 
 " Twa o' them," replied Duncan, trying 
 to rise. '^ We maun, at ony rate, iiae 
 (hiccup) the stirrup-cup, ye ken — laugh- 
 ing and twinkling his reeling eyes. " 
 
 " Ou ay," replied the writer ; " but I 
 — I fancy I maun pay for that, seein ye 
 are the traveller, and — and are besides to 
 pay a' this tremendous bill, that lies, doot- 
 less, on the bar like a — a lawyer's me- 
 morial." 
 
 " Ye're an example o' an honest, ay, a 
 generous writer," said Duncan — " wha 
 could hae thochtye wad hae offered to pay 
 the stirrup-cup ? I'll send yer wife a 
 piece o' dornock for that, as weel as a 
 screed o' huckaback and harn, to keep up 
 a gratefu' recollection o' me after I'm 
 awa. I'll no be a minute at the bar ; for 
 it's a place (hiccup) I dinna like." 
 
 " Hae," cried the writer, ripping his 
 pocket — " tak wi' ye and pay at the same 
 time the price o' the stirrup-gill — ae set- 
 tlin will ser a'." 
 
 " Ye're richt, Mr. Gavin," replied 
 Duncan, receiving the money ; but that's 
 a sma sum (hiccup) in comparison o' what 
 I hae to pay ; but it's pleasant to discharge 
 the obligations o' honor." 
 
 The wily huckaback manufacturer was, 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OP JUDGMENT. 
 
 585 
 
 as he spoke, approaching the corner where 
 his staff ellwand lay — an article he stood 
 more in need of at that time (short mea- 
 sure as it was) than ever, on any other 
 occasion of taking off^ he had encountered. 
 The recourse to it for the purpose of 
 merely going to the bar, could not fail to 
 raise suspicions in the mind of the writer ; 
 but then, again, was he to lose a short 
 measure, which, getting into the hands of 
 a writer might be sent — in revenge of the 
 trick he had already played him, in selling 
 a web of linen damaged in the heart, and 
 that he was about to play — to the public 
 authorities, who would hunt him to Dun- 
 fermline, and ruin him by the exposure ? 
 He besides required it for his support ; 
 for he could scarcely stand. In this 
 dilemma, he had again recourse to his wits. 
 
 " I'm no sure aboot thae folk ben the 
 hoose," he said, holding up the ellwand. 
 " They may try to cheat me, seein I'm a 
 simple cratur, besides being twa sheets i' 
 the wind — (hiccup) — dinna ye think that 
 I should tak my stick i' my hand, as a 
 kind o' lawburrows and protection ? No 
 to say I would think o' usin't, but simply 
 to keep the publican in awe, and within 
 just and lawfu measure. 
 
 " Tak it wi' ye, tak it wi' ye, man,'' 
 said the writer. " Say it's a — a Dumfar- 
 lan baton, the sign o' ycr constableship, 
 and ye'll find the bill two inch shorter." 
 
 " Ingenious cratur !" ejaculated Dun- 
 can, with a hiccup, and a drunken leer of 
 his grey eyes. " A law plea never can 
 fail, surely, in the hands o' a man wi' sic 
 a power o' suggestion as ye hae. But ye 
 forget that Dumfarlan batons are no sae 
 lang as Dumfarlan ellwands — (hiccup) — 
 the power o' authority there's short, but 
 the reach o' oor honesty's prodigious. 
 That's a guid sign : oor batons are short 
 because we're quiet and civil, and our ell- 
 wands are lang because we're honest. 
 Wad ye believe it, noo, that that ellwand 
 o' mine, in spite o' the wear and tear o' 
 walkin wi't, is a hail inch different frae 
 yer Edinburgh yards .'"' 
 
 This fresh attack against the honesty of 
 Edinburgh roused the blood of the writer, 
 and another wordy battle was lik to com- 
 mence ; but Duncan saw at once, that, if 
 he put off more time, the people of the 
 house might, from the lateness of the hour, 
 come and insist upon the reckoning on the 
 spot — a measure which all his wits would 
 not enable him to counteract. The open 
 mouth of the writer was therefore shut, 
 by a few conciliatory words from the ag- 
 gressor : — 
 
 " I didna say, Mr. Gavin," added 
 Duncan, " whether the inch belanged to 
 Dumfarlan or Edinburgh. Ye may tak 
 the benefit o' a presumjJtion in yer ain fa- 
 vor, till I come back. Mony ane o' yer 
 tribe stick langer by a presumption than 
 that, and, till it grows into a fact, it can- 
 na injure an honest man like me. Guid" 
 — (he was going to add "night,'' and 
 leered grotesquely at his own imprudence) 
 — " guid — (hiccup) — guid luck to my 
 speedy settlement o' the lawin !" 
 
 He now staggered to the door, which 
 he opened so gently that the writer might 
 if he had not been drunk, have suspected 
 him of foul play. His foot was scarcely 
 heard on the passage ; but a sound, as if 
 from the foot of the stairs, indicated that 
 some one had missed a step. No notice 
 of it was taken by the writer, who sat with 
 his eye fixed on the candle, concocting, 
 like a good poet, one of those works of 
 imagination called a preliminary or dilatory 
 defence. Formerly, these works of fancy 
 were very rife among lawyers, and before 
 the judicature act, they used to reach a 
 second or even a third edition, under the 
 form of amended defences," " re-amend- 
 ed defences," and so forth. They are 
 not now so much in favor, though the 
 fancy which produces them is still as vivid 
 as ever. How long Andrew Gavin sat 
 dreaming over his intended work we can- 
 not say ; but never was poet more rudely, 
 importunately, and unpleasantly roused 
 from his dream, by the hand of a messen- 
 ger at arms, than was the unsuspecting 
 
586 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 victim of Duncan's treachery as he was 
 called upon by the landlord to pay the bill. 
 He had no money upon him — the small 
 sum he had given to the weaver to pay the 
 last or stirrup gill, and which the varlet 
 had carried away with him, having been all 
 his remaining cash, after paying the price 
 of the linen. He requested the importu- 
 nate landlord to wait a little to ascertain 
 if Duncan would return ; but the man 
 wished to get to bed, and Andrew's credit 
 being somewhat worn, like that of many 
 others of his overdone profession, the pub- 
 lican insisted upon him leaving his watch, 
 as a pledge for the payment of the money. 
 The writer's pride (a quality never awant- 
 ing in the race, especially when they're 
 in liquor) was roused ; he refused to im- 
 pignorate, as he called it, his watch, and 
 swore that he would rather remain in dur- 
 ance all night, than succumb to the un- 
 reasonable demand of the publican. The 
 man was as resolute as he, and, without 
 saying a word, turned the key in the lock, 
 and left the writer to dream over his legal 
 works of fancy in the dark. 
 
 Meanwhile, the wily Duncan Schule- 
 bred, having recovered from a fall on the 
 last step of the stair — produced by that 
 impatience of slight obstacles which seizes 
 an ambidexter at the successful termina- 
 tion of a well concerted and better executed 
 scheme — proceeded down the Canongate. 
 He was out and out intoxicated ; but the 
 wish to cheat, so long as it was in operation, 
 kept his mind from that confusion which, 
 his purpose being effected, immediately 
 seized him. He was not certain of the di- 
 rection in which he was moving, but he was 
 satisfied with the idea that he was going//-o??i 
 the sign of The Barleycorn, and any desti- 
 nation was better than that. A confused 
 intention of sleeping all night in the town 
 of Leith, with the view of catching the 
 Fife boat in the morning, at last wrought 
 its way through the cloud which overhung 
 his mind ; and having found himself as far 
 as the Water-gate, he continued his pro- 
 gress until he came to what is called the 
 
 Easter Road leading directly down to the 
 Links. The air produced its usual effect 
 upon a man who was filled to the throat 
 with liquor ; and every step he took he 
 found himself getting more and more un- 
 steady, and more and more unfit for prose- 
 cuting his journey. He was, however, 
 still conscious of his condition, and felt 
 great alarm lest some one should assail him, 
 and take from him his money. By and 
 by, even his consciousness left him, and 
 he rolled from side to side, engrossing, for 
 his own particular ambulation, the whole 
 breadth of the road. Several times he 
 came down, and, being unable to rise with- 
 out many repeated attempts, lay on the 
 ground for considerable periods. The 
 necessity of motion of some kind is the 
 last idea parted with by an intoxicated 
 traveller ; and Duncan still retained it, 
 even after he had lost his ellwand, his 
 chief means of support. On he struggled , 
 falling, and lying, and rising, and to it 
 again, till he got at length as far as the 
 green called the Links of Leith — an open 
 space always as disadvantageous to the 
 drunken man as it is pleasant to the seaman. 
 A road with two sides may be got over — 
 the dikes keep him on ; but an extended 
 area of grass with radiating openings all 
 round, is a kind of place which a man in 
 Duncan Schulebred's position, without 
 the rudder or compass of consciousness, 
 must always view with great uneasiness. 
 Accordingly, he beat about in this large 
 circle for several hours, and at last entered 
 a street which leads down to that called 
 Salamander Street, from the circumstance 
 of its being inhabited by those fire-eaters, 
 the glass-blowers of the Leith glassworks, 
 into which latter street he also got, re- 
 duced to the last extremity of feeble ine- 
 briation. 
 
 Having reached the south side of Sala- 
 mander Street, he kept close by the walls 
 and houses, stepping along, unwilling to 
 trust himself again to open space. He 
 knew nothing of whither he was progress- 
 ing, he had lost all recollection of what he 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 587 
 
 had been engaged in, was unconscious of 
 what he was doing, and utterly ignorant 
 of all localities. As he moved past the 
 houses, he came to an opening, and, stag- 
 gering to a side, he entered the small ave- 
 nue into which it led, and proceeded along 
 it, still holding by the wall, until he got 
 into one of the large houses or cones of 
 the glass works. There he lay down along- 
 side of the furnace, and behind a large 
 trough used by the artificers in their work 
 — a situation which, yielding him conside- 
 rable heat, was so secluded that he might, 
 for a time, escape even the observation of 
 the artificers in the morning, when they 
 resumed their work. He fell in an instant 
 into a sleep, disturbed by those frightful 
 dreams that haunt the pillow of the disso- 
 lute and the wicked. 
 
 In the morning the workman came to 
 commence the labors of the day. They 
 began their work with a spirit called forth 
 by high wages, produced by an increased 
 demand at that time for glass. Through- 
 out the large cone they lighted their lamps, 
 and proceeded to the various preliminary 
 processes, towards the manufacture of 
 their brittle commodity. The large fur- 
 nace was lighted, and blown up to a red 
 heat, for the purpose of preparing what is 
 called the fritty being the substance out of 
 which the glass is subsequently formed. 
 Large flames soon shot forth from the fire, 
 which was, from time to time, supplied 
 with great quantities of fuel, and, at every 
 blow of the bellows, the vivid light flashed 
 through the space around, which was 
 comparatively dark, from the dispropor- 
 tion between the large area, and the few 
 lights yet lighted. While some of the 
 men were occupied about the furnace, the 
 light striking on their sallow faces, and 
 leaving all again in an instant nearly dark, 
 a number of the others were busy in the 
 distance, performing the operation of 
 blowing the glass, dipping their long tubes 
 in the prepared substance, and inflating 
 the ball, till, red and glowing like a fire 
 globe, it is expanded to the size requisite 
 
 for the purpose for which it is intended. 
 In this operation, the workmen are obliged 
 to be active in their movements, running 
 backwards and forwards between the fur- 
 nace and the reservoirs, with the hot, red, 
 glaring glass globes at the end of the tubes 
 and crossing and recrossing each other, in 
 the dark obscure, so as to present the ap- 
 pearance of demons engaged in some mys- 
 terious operations of their avenging spirits. 
 In all this, the shining globes are the only 
 appearances clearly discernible in continua- 
 tion ; the figures and faces of the men 
 being only at intervals shown by the glare 
 thrown upon them by the glowing furnace, 
 as it responds to the loud murmuring bel- 
 low of the inflating and fire producing 
 blast. 
 
 It may well be doubted whether any of 
 the descriptions of the infernal regions, as 
 given by the three great epic describers of 
 that place of torment, would give a better 
 idea of Hades, than a view, during the 
 dark hours of a gloomy morning, of a great 
 glass-work in active operation. Many of 
 the appearances are strikingly coincident 
 with our ideas of the place appointed for 
 the wicked. The glowing furnace ; the 
 roaring bellows ; the crossing and recross- 
 ing of the men with the fiery globes in 
 their hands, which they continue plunging 
 into reservoirs, as if striking victims ; the 
 darkness, relieved only by the rising flame, 
 which, falling again, leaves the former 
 gloom ; the wide expanse around the rising 
 walls of red brick, tapering up beyond the 
 reach of the eye, as if they sought the 
 clouds ; and all the endless apparatus ly- 
 ing around — cannot fail to suggest the 
 most striking resemblance to the peculiari- 
 ties of the hell of the poets. The impres- 
 sion produced on the mind of a person 
 visiting the works, is extraordinary and 
 lasting ; and it is not too much to say that 
 a nervous individual, introduced secretly, 
 at a proper time, and without any know- 
 ledge of the place, would be apt to be 
 thrown into a state of gloom and even 
 fear, which he would not soon forget. 
 
588 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 During all this time, and while this ex- 
 traordinary work was going on around him, 
 Duncan Schulebred had been as much un- 
 noticed by the workmen as they had been 
 by him. He began at last to show some 
 signs of returning consciousness, rolling 
 his body backwards and forwards, as if 
 under the effect of a night-mare of the 
 body, or of that more terrible night-mare 
 of the conscience by which he was often 
 at home so relentlessly ridden. And so 
 he was. Some frightful dreams had filled 
 his mind with terrors ; and, having pro- 
 duced a kind of half waking state, were 
 followed as they usually were by the gnawing 
 of that power which during night produced 
 to him such torments. A dim recollec- 
 tion came on him of all the wickedness 
 he had committed — the number of inno- 
 cent individuals he had cheated by his 
 short measure and his damaged linen ; the 
 shirking of publicans, the duping of travel- 
 lers, his drunkenness, his lies, and false 
 pretences — all his thoughts being accom- 
 panied by the terrors of an evil conscience 
 which whispered punishment by fire and 
 brimstone, and filled his half-sleeping fan- 
 cy with vivid images of the place of pun- 
 ishment. It is not unlikely that this half- 
 sleeping, half- waking, dreamy cogitation, 
 was aided insensibly by the partial opera- 
 tion of external sense, conveying some dim 
 intelligence of what was going on around 
 him. But this condition did not last long : 
 he awoke to the full conviction of being in 
 the very place of the damned. He heard 
 first the roaring of the bellows ; then he 
 saw the red brick walls rising to heaven ; 
 then his eyes turned on the terrific fur- 
 nace, vomiting forth its living fire, while 
 the bearers of the burning globes, hurry- 
 ing to and fro past him and around him, 
 and plunging their fiery weapons into the 
 receptacles, (doubtless of the condemned 
 wicked), claimed, on every side, his rapt 
 and terrified gaze. Fear prevented him 
 from moving ; his cogitations took the 
 form of a soliloquy, and he communed with 
 liimself on his awful condition. 
 
 *' Mercy on my puir soul !'' he exclaim- 
 ed, but so as not to let the devils hear 
 him — " am I here at last .'' When I was 
 in the body, hoo aften did I think and 
 dream o' the bottomless pit ? — can it be 
 that Pra now in't .'* Alas ! it's owre true ! 
 What hae I, a wicked cratur, noo to ex- 
 pect frae thae fiends for a' the sins dune 
 i' the body } But when did I dee } I dinna 
 recollect the circumstance o' my death — 
 dootless apoplexy — ay, ay, I was aye fear't 
 for't. Yet did I no fa' doon the stair o' 
 The Barleycorn. I did — that's it — I had 
 been killed by the fa'. Death's a sma' 
 affair to this. What a fiery furnace for a 
 puir sinner ! See hoo the devils rin wi' 
 their burning brands, forkin them into 
 thae pits, whar lie craturs in the same 
 condition wi' mysel ! But hoo do they no 
 come to me } Ah ! the furnace was for 
 me. I see Satan himseP at the bellows, 
 and it's no for ilka sinner he wad conde- 
 scend to work. It's for me wha cheated 
 the folk by my short ellwand at the rate 
 o' thirty-six inches o' claith a-week for 
 fifteen years — wha drank, and lee'd, and 
 deceived, and committed sins redder than 
 scarlet and mair numerous than the mots 
 i' the sun — ay, and wha dee'd i' the very 
 act o' cheatin Andrew Gavin, by sellin 
 him a wab o' damaged linen, and leavin 
 him to pay my bill at The Barleycorn. 
 Alas ! am I at last in this awfu place !" 
 
 This soliloquy was accompanied by deep 
 groans, wrung from him by the conviction 
 that he was truly in the place appointed 
 for the wicked. The sounds caught the 
 ear of one of the workmen called David 
 Leechman, who, looking over, saw, lying 
 behind the reservoir, the unhappy Duncan. 
 Listening, he heard the speech, and un- 
 derstood in an instant the import of it ; 
 that some one had lain down there in a 
 state of inebriety, and having fallen asleep, 
 had wakened to a conviction that he was 
 in Pandemonium. He instantly commu- 
 nicated the intelligence to some of his 
 neighbors ; and the son of a proprietor of 
 the works, who was present, having heard 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 589 
 
 it, gave his countenance to the proposition 
 of some of the men — viz., that they should 
 humor the notion of the condemned weaver, 
 and draw out of him some amusement. 
 The proprietor's son — a spirited and clever 
 young man — was accordingly deputed to 
 act the part of Prince Beelzebub, on whom 
 the others were to attend as ministerial 
 and subordinate devils ; each holding in his 
 hand a glass-blowing tube, with a glowing 
 ball (kept alive from time to time) at the 
 end of it. The Prince held up his hand 
 and cried — ■ 
 
 " Where is the weaver that cheated the 
 public at the rate of thirty-six inches of 
 cloth per week, and died, flagrante delicto, 
 in the very act of cheating our special 
 friend, Andrew Gavin the writer, (for 
 every writer is our special friend, and 
 must be protected by us, so long as he 
 writes lying defences and long memorials), 
 by selling him damaged linen, and leaving 
 him to pay his tavern bill } Where is the 
 scarlet rogue, that we may burn out the 
 red of his sins by the red fire of this glow- 
 ing furnace .^" 
 
 A loud yell, uttered by the simulated 
 ^devils, was the reply to this speech, and 
 went to the very heart of the trembling 
 victim. The Prince, followed by his de- 
 mons, approached him ; he was lying 
 shaking, trembling, and groaning, upon 
 his back, and looked at the approaching 
 legion, with their flaming brands, as they 
 approached him, with an expression of 
 countenance transcending anything that 
 could be produced by mere earthly agony, 
 or described by a mere goose quill of the 
 upper world. 
 
 " What is thy name, sinner .?" asked 
 the Prince. 
 
 " Mercy on me !" ejaculated Duncan, 
 " I'm in for't noo ! An' please your ex- 
 cellent Majesty," replied he, in a voice 
 scarcely audible, from the effects of ter- 
 ror, " Duncan Schulebred, wha, when 
 in the upper warld, was by trade a puir 
 weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did 
 yer Honor some service i' my sma' way. 
 
 and hope ye winna be sae ill to me as ye 
 threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi' 
 their burnin torches, frae me, and PU 
 confess to ye a' my crimes. Be mercifu 
 to a puir sinner !" 
 
 " What service didst thou ever do to 
 me .?" said Satan. 
 
 " I made ye some freens," replied Dun- 
 can, still groaning. '' I did a' that was 
 i' my power to get the craturs i' the up- 
 per warld to drink wi' me till they were 
 sae drunk that ye micht hae run awa 
 wi' them as easily as ye did wi' Doc- 
 tor Faustus or the exciseman. Oh, 
 think o' that, and save me frae that 
 awfu furnace !" 
 
 " Confess, sinner," said the Devil, 
 '^ that thou didst that for the purpose of 
 getting more easily quit of the tavern bills. 
 Thou didst also cheat the lieges by a false 
 measure." 
 
 " Lord, he kens everything," muttered 
 Duncan — " I confess I did cheat the lie- 
 ges ; but I assure yer INIajesty, upon my 
 honor, that I never cheated ony o' yer 
 Majesty's freens ; for 1 aye dealt wi' hon- 
 est folk. That's surely a reason for some 
 mercy." 
 
 " Recollect thyself, varlet," said 
 Satan — " didst thou never cheat a 
 writer .'^" 
 
 " Hoo correct he is !" muttered Dun- 
 can, with a groan. " Ou ay — true, true 
 — a' writers are yer Majesty's freens. I 
 forgot. I did cheat Andrew Gavin, by 
 selliu him a wab o' rotten linen, and leavin 
 him to pay the lawin at The Barleycorn — 
 a name your Majesty, dootless, weel 
 kens." 
 
 " I think I should," replied Satan, 
 " seeing that is 7iiy grain, wherewith I 
 work greater wonders than ever came out 
 of the mustard seed. This place is fed 
 with barley-corns — we bait our hooks with 
 barleycorns — we spread barleycorns under 
 our men-nets — the very man who sang the 
 praises of the grain, under the personifica- 
 tion of ' John Barleycorn,' and of its juice, 
 under the sobriquet of ' barley-bree,' took 
 
590 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 our bait ; but a redeeming angel touched 
 him on the fore-part of the stomach, and 
 made him throw it, and Heaven now 
 boasts that glorious prize." 
 
 " Miserable as 1 am, Tm very glad o't," 
 said Duncan, whose fears began to decline. 
 " I wadna like to see oor darling poet in 
 sic a place as this." 
 
 " Impudent varlet !" said the Devil. 
 " In with him into the furnace ! Yet, stay. 
 How much money did you cheat our friend 
 Andrew Gavin of .-^'^ 
 
 " I needna try to conceal it," said Dun- 
 can to himself. " He kens it as weel as I 
 do. Here it is," (speaking out) " and 
 some mair — ye may hae it a', if ye'U no 
 consign me to that red-hot fiery furnace. 
 Fearfu, fearfu place !" 
 
 " Count it out," said Satan. 
 
 Duncan complied with trembling hands, 
 and Beelzebub took up the money. 
 
 " That is a most precious commodity,'' 
 said he. " They say, above, that our 
 dominions are paved with good intentions 
 — they should rather say, that it is paved 
 with gold, a metal with which the ancient 
 infidels said, heaven was constructed. 
 Never was there a greater error. * The 
 root of all evil' cannot surely be found in 
 the very birth-place of good." 
 
 " I ken, at least," said Duncan, " that 
 it was gowd that brought me here. Cursed 
 trash ! It is the gowd and no the puir 
 sinners deceived by't that should be put 
 into the furnace. Weel, weel, has it been 
 ca'ed the root o' a' evil. Oh, cursed 
 dross ! what am I to sufier for ye .'" 
 
 " Doth the creature malign our staple 
 commodity," said Satan, " and say it 
 should be melted r Away with him to 
 the furnace ! — melt him .'" 
 
 Duncan screamed for mercy, while the 
 workmen laid hold of him, and proceeded 
 to carry him to the mouth of the furnace, 
 which was blown up into a fearful red 
 heat. He continued to roar with tremen- 
 dous vociferation, making all the cone 
 ring, and casting about his legs and arms, 
 like one distracted. Those of the work- 
 
 men who were not engaged in carrying 
 him, brought within an inch of his face, 
 their burning globes of glass, and made 
 indications as if they would apply them to 
 his body ; while the bearers, turning his 
 head to the fiery volcano, brought it with- 
 in a foot of the burning coal, and the 
 whole ceremony was accompanied by a 
 chorus of loud yells, set up by the opera- 
 tors, and made to echo and reverberate 
 throughout the area of the cone. Inde- 
 pendently, altogether, of the conviction of 
 being in the hands of the Devil and his 
 legions, the situation of Duncan, with his 
 head within a foot of a furnace, and sur- 
 rounded by wild-looking howling beings, 
 intent apparently on his destruction, 
 would have terrified the stoutest heart ; 
 but he truly believed himself on the very 
 eve of being punished for his crimes, by 
 being thrust head-foremost into the burn- 
 ing furnace, from which no power could 
 save him. And who could contemplate 
 that position without horror } His agony 
 was inexpressible, except by screams ; and 
 it was cruelly prolonged by afiected 
 manoeuvres, such as blowing the bellows, 
 and stirring and restirring the coals, tg 
 make them burn more fiercely, for the 
 more adequate reception of the greatest of 
 human sinners that had ever been consign- 
 ed to the pit. 
 
 Havins; held him for some time in this 
 position, Satan, pretending to recollect 
 himself, cried out — 
 
 " Achitophel, get the red-hot pincers. 
 We were oblivious. He hath not con- 
 fessed all his crimes. We will pinch him 
 for a few hours before we consign him to 
 the fire, which is not, at any rate, red 
 enough for so great a sinner. Lay him 
 down close to the furnace, and bring a pair 
 of pinchers for each log and arm." 
 
 The victim was laid before the furnace, 
 screaming at the top of his voice, and his 
 eyes rolling about like fiery balls. The 
 pincers were brought and put into the 
 furnace, and the bellows again sent forth 
 their di'eadful sound ; the howling was 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OP JUDGMENT. 
 
 591 
 
 increased ; and all the men, as they utter- 
 ed their yells, danced round him, waving 
 their red globes, and every now and then 
 bringing them within a few inches of his 
 face. The pincers were getting hot 
 apace, by the fierce blowing of the bel- 
 lows ; and one of the legion held the head 
 of the victim so as to force him to con- 
 template the instruments of his torture. 
 The confusion grew worse confounded — 
 the noise of the blowing forge, the howl- 
 ing of the legion, the groaning and scream- 
 ing of Duncan, the loud word of command 
 of the Prince, all blending together to rend 
 and distract the ear ; while the rapid mo- 
 tions of the dancers, and the rising and 
 falling of the bellows, made the eyes of 
 the distracted being reel like those of a 
 maniac. 
 
 This punishment was continued, until 
 it appeared that the terrified Duncan was 
 about to faint. His cries ceased, and fear 
 seemed to lose its effect over him. It was 
 time to stop, as even amusement may be 
 carried to the verge of death — and the 
 unfortunate Duncan was more like death 
 than life. The young man who acted the 
 Prince accordingly gave the sign for his 
 legion to stop, and in an instant the bel- 
 lows ceased to blow, and the men to dance, 
 and all was as still as death. Apprehen- 
 sive of having killed the victim by pure 
 fright, the Prince, assisted by some of the 
 legion, lifted him to a distance from the 
 furnace, and having held up his head so 
 as to get him to sit, some whisky (bought 
 with a part of his own money) was brought 
 from a neighboring ale-house. As he sat 
 pale and trembling, and looking wistfully 
 about him, the chief actor filled up a glass 
 of the spirits, and ofiered it to him. He 
 seemed irresolute and timid — looking first 
 at the whisky, then at the men, and much 
 at a loss what to think of his position. 
 His grotesque appearance forced the chief 
 actor to smile : the effect was instantaneous 
 — Duncan caught the favorable indica- 
 tion, and took the glass into his hands. 
 
 " I didna think," said he, " that there 
 
 was ony o' this kind o' liquor here. I ex- 
 pected naething but melted brimstone, 
 said to be the staple drink o' your domini- 
 ons. But is it really whisky } I^'s surely 
 impossible — if the circumstance got wind 
 aboon, that there was whisky in these 
 parts, there wad be nae keepin folk oot. 
 Hoo, dinna ye spread the intelligence .'' 
 surely ye 're no sae keen for recruits as ye 
 were when ye danced awa wi' the excise- 
 man." 
 
 "It is already known on earth that 
 whisky was first brewed in Pandemonium," 
 said the actor. " The nectar belongs to 
 heaven, the wine to earth, and the whisky 
 to the infernal regions. A thousand poets 
 have sung about the drink of the gods, 
 and a little old fellow (a Greek) who lies 
 in one of these troughs, getting his wine- 
 heated pate cooled with brimstone every 
 five minutes, danced and sang the praises 
 of wine till 1 got hold of him at the age of 
 eighty. The only poet who has let out 
 the secret of whisky being first brewed in 
 our regions was a person of the name of 
 M'Neil, who sang — 
 
 Of a' the ills puir Caledonia 
 E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, 
 
 Brewed in Hell's black Pandemonia, 
 Whisky's ill has scaithed her maist. 
 
 I tried to get hold of the fellow, for tis 
 impudence in maligning our favorite li- 
 quor ; but he wrote some sweet poems, 
 and the gods took him under their wing." 
 
 " Ye were muckle indebted, I think," 
 replied Duncan, " to Hector, for tellin 
 the folk that whisky was brewed here. It 
 will save your Majesty a warld o' trouble ; 
 for customers, o' their ain accord, will 
 come in millions, ' linkin to the black pit,' 
 if they're sure o' the spark.'''' 
 
 " They are sure of the sparky'''' replied 
 the Prince. " But we give it here only 
 as a medicine whereby we recover our 
 patients that they may be the more able 
 to feel our torments. The moment thou 
 drinkest, the pincers will be applied." 
 
 " Then I beg leave to decline the li- 
 quor," said Duncan. "I see nae use for 
 
592 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 fire baith ootside and in ; besides, I hae 
 renounced the practice o' drinkin at an- 
 other person's expense — a tred I followed 
 owre lang in the upper regions, to my sad 
 cost this da3^" 
 
 " Thou hast paid for this with the 
 money thou gavest me," said the actor. 
 
 " That's mair than I ever did upon 
 earth,'' said Duncan, with a leer which he 
 could not restrain. 
 
 It will have been seen that the truth 
 had for some time been dawning upon the 
 mind of the condemned culprit. He look- 
 ed round and round him, and every look 
 added fresh proof of the delusion under 
 which he labored. Looking into the face of 
 Satan, he even was bold enough to smile, 
 accompanying the act with one of his ini- 
 mitable leers. It was impossible to resist 
 his look of sly humor ; and the whole com- 
 pany broke out into a fit of laughter, which 
 made all the cone ring again. Seizing 
 the whisky, he looked round upon all the 
 parties, and, bowing, said — 
 
 " Gentlemen, I'm obleeged to ye for the 
 trouble ye hae taen on my account. I see 
 noo hoo the land lies ; but though I ken 
 the hail extent o' this awfu delusion, din- 
 na think that the part ye hae played is a 
 piece o' mere fun and humor, to form 
 afterwards the foundation o' a guid story. 
 Ye hae dune mair this mornin for the re- 
 generation o' a puir sinner, than was ef- 
 fected by a' the sermons I ever heard frae 
 the pu'pits o' Scotland. I hae confessed 
 my crimes to ye, and I canna expect that 
 this cone is to confine for ever my evil re- 
 putation. It maun gae abroad, and con- 
 demn me, and ruin me ; but" (lowering 
 his voice seriously) " I will defy it to pre- 
 vent me frae followin the course I hae this 
 day determined to pursue. Frae this 
 hour henceforth, to that moment when it 
 may please Heaven to tak me frae this 
 warld, I shall be an upright, a sober, and 
 a religious man. The folk 1 hae injured, 
 cheated, and robbed, I will try to benefit 
 to the utmost extent o' my puir ability. 
 And every day o' my life will be dedi- 
 
 cated to the service o' the Almighty, and 
 the guid o' his craturs. My first step will 
 be to gang to Edinburgh, and pay back to 
 Andrew Gavin the price o' the damaged 
 linen he purchased frae me, and to settle 
 the tavern bill at The Barleycorn, to as- 
 sist me whereunto ye will dootless gie me 
 back my siller. This resolution I confirm 
 thus." And he flung the whisky into the 
 furnace, which blazed up, a kind of holo- 
 caust, as a thanksgiving for the regenera- 
 tion of a sinner. 
 
 Duncan's money was paid back to him 
 honestly, and the actors were well pleased 
 that they had, out of their amusement, 
 wrought so extraordinary a miracle. The 
 regenerated man departed from the glass- 
 works, and proceeded, according to his 
 intention, direct to Edinburgh. He called 
 first at Andrew Gavin's house. 
 
 " Is Mr. Gavin within .^" said he, to 
 Mrs. Gavin. 
 
 " My husband," said the disconsolate 
 wife, " hasna been at hame a' nicht. The 
 last time I saw him was when he departed 
 wi' you. What hae ye dune wi' him ? I 
 fear some sad mischief has befa'en him ; 
 for unless he's at a prufe or after a fugy^ 
 he never stays oot o' his ainhoose a nicht. 
 But what kind o' linen was that ye sauld 
 him .^" 
 
 " It was a piece o' rotten linen I sauld 
 him," replied Duncan, sternly. 
 
 Mrs. Gavin looked at him in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Ay, and," he continued, " your hus- 
 band is dootless locked up in The Barley- 
 corn, because he couldna — puir man ! — 
 pay the lawin that I should hae paid and 
 ran awa and left him to pay." 
 
 Mrs. Gavin's amazement was increas- 
 ed. 
 
 '* Ay, and," continued he, " I hae 
 cheated thousands besides you and your 
 husband — a greater sinner than I hae been, 
 ye wadna find between the Mull o' Gallo- 
 way and John o' Groats. If I had got my 
 due, I wad hae been hanged, or at least 
 sent to Botany Bay." 
 
DUNCAN SCHULEBRED^ VISION OP JUDGMENT. 
 
 593 
 
 " Bring, 
 
 " Are you mad, or do you glory in your 
 wickedness ?" said Mrs. Gavin. 
 
 *' Nane o' the twa," said Duncan. " I 
 am as wise as ye are ; and, in place o' 
 gloryin in my wickedness, I am as repent- 
 ant as a deein martyr." 
 
 " Repentance is naething withoot 
 warks," replied she. 
 
 " Warks !" ejaculated Duncan 
 bring me the rotten linen." 
 
 The astonished woman went and brought 
 the article. 
 
 " There's the &iller," said Duncan, " I 
 got frae yer husband for that wab. I'll 
 sell it noo for what it is — a piece o' vile 
 deception. Need ye a commodity o-' that 
 description .^" 
 
 "I think I could find use for't," said 
 Mrs. Gavin. " It has ae guid end, but 
 
 ye '11 come to an ill ane when ye" 
 
 " row it down," she would have said, but 
 Duncan caug-ht her : — 
 
 " When ye cheat yer neighbor," added 
 he. '^ Ye 're quite right, madam ; a rot- 
 ten-hearted wab is just like a rotten- 
 hearted man — they baith come to an ill 
 end. Oh, hoo gratefu I am to thae glass- 
 blawers, wha hae blawn awa my crimes, 
 and converted and reformed me !" 
 
 " He is surely mad after a'," muttered 
 Mrs. Gavin, to herself — " wha ever heard 
 o' glass-blawers convertin sinners ^ I hae 
 aye understood that glass-blawers are free 
 livers, and need repentance themselves as 
 muckle as ither folk. Hoo could they 
 convert ye .?" 
 
 " There are strange mysteries i' the 
 warld," said Duncan ; " but we ^rill 
 better let that subject alane. We only, 
 after a', see ^ as through a glass darkly.' 
 Stick to the linen — what is it worth V 
 
 Mrs. Gavin stated a price, Duncan 
 accepted her offer, and the damaged linen 
 was sold. 
 
 " Noo," said Duncan, '^ I'll send ye yer 
 husband." 
 
 " I will be obleeged to ye," said Mrs. 
 Gavin ; " and if ye can get the glass- 
 blawers to gie him a blast, yer kindness 
 
 VOL. II 75 
 
 far beyond my pnir 
 
 wad be increased 
 
 pooers o' recompense 
 
 '' Ah, madam," said Duncan, " writers 
 are owre wecl accustomed to blasts o' the 
 horn^ to care for ordinary windfa's. I ken 
 nae better thing for an ill husband (no 
 sayin that Andrew is liable to that charge) 
 than a blast o' a wife's tongue. God be 
 praised, Janet Schulebred will hae nae 
 mair cause to lecture me ! We will now 
 live happily durin the remainin portion o' 
 the time o' oor pilgrimage. I hae aye 
 taeii something hame to her. Last year I 
 took some whisky bottles — probably made 
 at the glass warks o' Leith ; this time, I 
 intend to tak a family Bible. Guid day, 
 madam- — I'm awa to The Barleycorn ; and 
 frae that I gang ta a Bible repository, and 
 then hame." 
 
 He repaired to The Barleycorn. He 
 saw the landlord standing at the door, 
 with a sombre face. He had the key of 
 the room in his hand, and looked the very 
 picture of a jailor. He knew Duncan in- 
 stantly, and was proceeding to seize him, 
 when the latter surrendered himself with 
 so much good humor, that the publican 
 gave up his purpose and smiled at the 
 prospect of getting his money. 
 
 " You forgot to come back last night," 
 said the man. " Mr. Gavin says that you 
 were the principal debtor to me for my 
 drink, and that he was merely surety or 
 cautioner. Is that true.^" 
 
 " Perfectly true," replied Duncan. "I 
 promised to pay the bill, and should hae 
 paid the bill ; but I was determined I 
 wadna pay the bill. Accordingly, I ran 
 awa for nae ither purpose than to avoid 
 pay in it." 
 
 " A trick ye'll no play a second time," 
 said the publican, seizing him. 
 
 " No," said Duncan, taking out money, 
 " seein I am come to pay ye plack and 
 faithin. Let us adjourn to Mr. Gavin's 
 prison." 
 
 " The vera place I intended to tak ye 
 to," said the man. 
 
 They proceeded to the room where 
 
594 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 Andrew was confined, and found him 
 sitting in a sombre fit of melancholy. As 
 they entered, he looked at Duncan with an 
 appearance of mixed anger and satisfac- 
 tion. The latter feeling predominated, as 
 his mind suggested that the poor weaver 
 had been prevented by drunkenness from 
 returning immediately to pay the bill, and 
 had now come to make amends. 
 
 " I hae been angry at ye, Duncan," said 
 he ; " but I micht hae had mair faith in 
 yer honor, than to doot ye without better 
 proof o' dishonesty than no returnin 
 (when ye werena able) to pay yer debts." 
 
 " Ye couldna hae a better proof o' my 
 dishonesty," replied Duncan, sternly ; 
 '' for, last nicht, when I ran awa withoot 
 payin the lawin, I had nae mair intention 
 o' comin back than I had o' ganging doun 
 to the bottomless pit." 
 
 Andrew looked at the speaker with the 
 same amazement as was exhibited by his 
 wife. 
 
 " How comes it then," said the writer, 
 " that ye hae returned here this morn- 
 ing .?" 
 
 " I hae got some new licht^^^ replied 
 Andrew. " Ye ken — • 
 
 So long's the lamp holds on to burn, 
 The greatest sinner may return. 
 
 I hae returned, no only to this tavern to 
 pay my debt, but to a proper sense o' 
 what is due to Heaven and to my fellow- 
 creatures. I am a changed man, sir. 
 Nae ^ vision o' judgment,' penned by 
 Southey or Byron, ever transcended that 
 o' the bottle-blawers o' Leith." 
 
 The writer considered him mad, and 
 trembled for the payment of the bill, 
 which could not be extorted from a mani- 
 ac. The tavern-keeper took a calmer 
 view, and thought he was still drunk. 
 
 " What are ye starin at .^" said Duncan. 
 *' Did ye never before see a repentant 
 sinner ? Bring yer bill, sir. And, Mr. 
 Gavin, I refer ye to Mrs. Gavin for some 
 information respectin a wab o' rotten 
 linen I sauld ye yesterday, bought back 
 again, and sauld again to her this mornin." 
 
 The tavern-keeper brought the bill, 
 which Duncan discharged. 
 
 " I cheated ye, Mr. Gavin, also o' the 
 price o' the stirrup-cup." 
 
 '' Let us drink it noo," said Mr. Gavin 
 — " Bring us a gill" — to the tavern-keep- 
 er. 
 
 The whisky was brought, and the writer 
 took cleverly his morning dram, a practice 
 which the craft has latterly renounced, 
 but which they should have recourse to 
 again, as a glass of whisky is a good be- 
 ginning to a day's roguery, and has, 
 besides, sometimes the same effect upon 
 the conscience that it produces on the 
 toothache — stills the pain. A glass was 
 next filled out for Duncan. He took it 
 up and held it in his hand. 
 
 " Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I 
 saw last nicht," he said to the tavern- 
 keeper. 
 
 *' It is only newly lighted," was the 
 apology of the host. 
 
 " It may be the better o' that," said 
 the other, throwing the whisky into the 
 grate, and making the fire blaze up. *' Sae 
 vshould a' burnin, fiery liquors be used. 
 They might then warm the outsides, in 
 place o' burnin the insides o' sinners. 
 Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my 
 repentance. This is ane o' them. Ye 
 may hear and see mair, if ye consider 
 Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer conside- 
 ration, and trace his conduct through this 
 weary, wicked, waefa warld, during the 
 remainin period o' an ill-begun but (I 
 hope), weel-ended life." 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEAR- 
 ANCE. 
 
 Having laid before our readers a story 
 the truth of which may be testified by the 
 evidence of living witnesses, we will now 
 add an account of another supposed de- 
 scent into the infernal regions, performed 
 by another individual belonging to the 
 same town, equally true as the adventure 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 595 
 
 of Duncan Schulebred, but unfortunately 
 having a very different termination. 
 
 W 13 was a respectable mer- 
 
 cbant in Dunfermline, where he had car- 
 ried on business for a great many years, 
 under the reputation of being, at least, in 
 very easy circumstances, if not wealthy. 
 A good business, a comfortable wife, and 
 a fair reputation, were supposed to have 
 conspired to produce in him as much hap- 
 piness and contentment as generally falls 
 to the lot of the people of this lower 
 world ; nor did the appearance of the 
 man belie in the slightest degree the sup- 
 position so naturally and legitimately 
 formed : ho was always in good humor, 
 active, bustling, cheerful, and loquacious ; 
 and if he did not succeed in his attempts 
 to produce mirth in the people who fre- 
 quented his place of business, he made up 
 the deficiency by an ever ready chorus of 
 his own, the sound of which seemed to 
 please him nearly as well as the tributary 
 laughter of others. In the very midst of 
 
 all this apparent contentedness, W 
 
 B disappeared all at once. No one 
 
 could tell whither he had gone ; and his 
 wife was just as ignorant of his destina- 
 tion or fate as any one else. That he 
 had left the country-, could not be sup- 
 posed, because he had taken nothing with 
 him ; that he had made away with himself, 
 was almost as unlikely, seeing that it is 
 not generally in the midst of gaiety and 
 good humor that people commit suicide. 
 Every search, however, was made for him, 
 but all in vain — no trace could be found of 
 him, except that a person who had been 
 near the old ruin called the Magazine, 
 part of the old castle in the neighborhood 
 of the town, reported that, on the night 
 when he disappeared, ho, the narrator, 
 heard in that quarter a very extraordina- 
 ry soliloquy from the lips of some one in 
 great agony ; but that all his efforts (for 
 it was dark), could not enable him to 
 ascertain who or where he was. So far 
 as he could recollect, the words of the 
 person were as follows : — 
 
 " The self-destroyer has nae richt to 
 expect a better place. (Groans.) A' is 
 dark and dismal — a thousand times mair 
 sae than what my fancy ever pictured upon 
 earth. But there will be licht sune, ay, 
 and scorchin fires, and a' the ither terrors 
 o' the place whar the wicked receive the 
 reward o' their sins. If I had again the 
 days to begin, which, when in the body, I 
 spent sae fruitlessly and sinfully, hoo wad 
 I be benefited by this sicht o' the very 
 entrance to the regions o' the miserable ? 
 and yet does not the great author o' guid 
 strive, wi' a never-wearyin energy, by 
 dreams and visions, and revelations and 
 thoughts, which vain man tries to measure 
 and value by the gauge o' his insignificant 
 reason, to show him what 1 now see, and 
 turn him to the practice o' a better life. 
 This is a narrow pit — there is neither 
 room for the voice o' lamentation, nor for 
 the struggle o' the restless limbs o' the 
 miserable ; the light, and the air, and the 
 space, and the view o' the blue heavens, 
 and the fair earth, which mak men proud, 
 as if they were proprietors o' the upper 
 world, and sinfu as if its joys were made 
 for them, are vanished, and a narrow cell, 
 nae bigger than my body, wi' nae air, nae 
 licht, nae warmth — cauld, dark, lonely, 
 and dismal — is the last and eternal place 
 appointed for the wicked. (Groans.) On 
 earth, men, though sinners, hae the com- 
 panionship o' men ; here my only com- 
 panion is a gnawin conscience, the true 
 fire o' the lower pit, and a thousand times 
 waur than a' the imagined flames which 
 haunt the minds o' the doers o' evil." 
 
 These dreadful words were spoken at 
 intervals, and loud groans bespoke the 
 agony of the sufferer. The individual 
 who heard them, at a loss what to conceive 
 became alarmed, ran away to get assist- 
 ance, and in a short time, returned, with 
 a companion and a light, to search among 
 the old ruins for the individual who was 
 thus apparently suffering under the imag- 
 ined terrors of the last place of punish- 
 ment. They looked carefully up and 
 
596 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 down, throughout the place called the 
 Magazine, among the ruins of the castle, 
 and in every hole and cranny of the neigh- 
 borhood, but neither could they see 
 any human being, nor hear again any 
 of the extraordinary sounds which had 
 chained the ear of the listener, and roused 
 his terrors. The idea of a supernatural 
 presence, was the first that presented 
 itself ; and a ghost giving its hollow utter- 
 ance to the lamentations of its suffering 
 spirit, confined, doubtless, in some of the 
 vaults of the castle, and struggling for 
 that liberty which depends upon the per- 
 formance of some penance upon earth, 
 was the ready solution of a difl&culty 
 which defied all recourse to ordinary 
 means of explanation. Having ascer- 
 tained that nothing was to be seen or 
 heard, the two friends returned to the 
 town, where they told what had happened. 
 The disappearance about that time of 
 
 W B suggested to many a more 
 
 rational explanation of the mysterious 
 affair; and a number of people adjourned 
 to the Magazine, for the purpose of ex- 
 ploring its dark recesses more thoroughly, 
 under the conviction that the missing indi- 
 vidual might be concealed in some part 
 that had not been searched. Every effort 
 was employed in vain. They penetrated 
 all the holes, and explored all the dark 
 corners — nothing was to be seen, nothing 
 heard, and the conclusion was arrived at 
 either that the narrator was deceiving or 
 deceived, or that the spirit had ceased to 
 issue its lamentations. 
 
 For many days and many years after- 
 wards, no trace could be had of W 
 
 B , nor was there ever even so much 
 
 as whispered, a single statement of any 
 one who had seen him either alive or dead. 
 The food for speculation which the myste- 
 rious affair afforded to the minds of the 
 inhabitants, was for a time increased by 
 the total want of success which attended 
 all the efforts of inquiry ; and, after the 
 fancies of all had been exhausted by the 
 
 vain work of endeavoring to discover that 
 which seemed to be hid by a higher power 
 from human knowledge, the circumstance 
 degenerated into one of the wonders of 
 nature, supplying the old women with the 
 material of a fire-side tale, for the amuse- 
 ment or terror of children. But it would 
 seem that the energies of vulgar every- 
 day life, are arrayed with inveterate hostil- 
 ity against the luxury of a mystery so 
 greedily grasped at by all people, however 
 thoroughly liberated from the prejudices 
 of early education or of late sanctification ; 
 and accordingly, one day, many years after 
 the occurrences now mentioned, as some 
 boys were amusing themselves among the 
 ruins of the old castle, they discovered 
 lying in a hole — called the Piper's Hole, 
 from the circumstance of a piper having 
 once entered it with a pair of bagpipes, 
 which he intended to play on till he 
 reached the end of it but never returned 
 — the body of a man reduced to a skele- 
 ton, but retaining on his bare bones the 
 clothes which he had worn when in life. 
 
 It was the body of W B . On 
 
 searching his pockets, there was found in 
 one of them a few pence, and in another 
 a bottle, with a paper label marked 
 " Laudanum." 
 
 This discovery cleared up all mystery. 
 The unfortunate man had intended to kill 
 himself in such a way as would put his 
 suicidal act beyond the knowledge of his 
 friends, and had resorted to the extraor- 
 dinary plan of creeping up into the dark 
 and narrow passage, where the action of 
 the fatal soporific had produced the delu- 
 sion that he was in the place appointed for 
 the wicked, with the soliloquy already 
 detailed — and then death. The physical 
 mystery was cleared up ; but a mystery of 
 a moral nature remains, which will bid 
 defiance to the revealing efforts of philo- 
 sophers — the strength and peculiaritj^ of 
 feeling which, working on a sane mind, 
 produced a purpose so extraordinary, and 
 the resolution to carry it into effect. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 597 
 
 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 As the story of the Gentle Shepherd, so 
 beautifully dramatized by Ramsay, may 
 not be so well known to our readers on the 
 south side of the Tweed as it deserves to 
 be, we have thought it would not be amiss 
 to sketch the tale in prose for their enter- 
 tainment, while we hope it will not be 
 unacceptable in this shape even to our 
 Scottish readers. To proceed then : — 
 
 Patrick, or Patie, as he was familiarly 
 called by his compeers, was an hum- 
 ble shepherd lad, born and bred in the 
 Lothians in Scotland, and within a few 
 miles of Edinburgh. Patie, who lived 
 about the middle of the seventeenth Cen- 
 tury, was a remarkably handsome young 
 man, and surpassed in all those rustic 
 accomplishments in which country swains 
 usually delight to excel. He was, more- 
 over, of a gay, light-hearted, and joyous 
 disposition ; and, morning, noon, and 
 night, made the woods and echoes of the 
 romantic spot where he lived, ring with 
 his mirthful glee. Besides all this, he 
 possessed, by nature, both a mind and 
 manner superior to his station ; yet in 
 that station he was happy and although it 
 was sufficiently humble, he would not have 
 exchanged it for an empire. He had no 
 unreasonable ambition, and was tormented 
 with no longings after things unattainable 
 by one in his lowly condition in life. 
 
 The person (Symon Scott, a wealthy 
 and excellent man) with whom Patie re- 
 sided, and with whom he had lived ever 
 since he was a child, was a tenant of Sir 
 William Preston's, a gentleman of large 
 landed property, who, to save his head — 
 he having taken an active part with the 
 royalists of the period — had fled his native 
 country, and was now abroad, no one 
 knew where. 
 
 Happy in his situation, and delighted 
 
 with the natural beauties, which he could 
 v/ell appreciate, of the romantic district in 
 which he lived, with its hills and its dales, 
 its woods, and waterfalls, and limpid 
 streams — Patie's felicity was yet more in- 
 creased by a virtuous, well placed, and 
 fondly requited attachment. 
 
 In his neighborhood, there lived a mo- 
 dest and beautiful girl of the name of 
 Peggy Forsyth, of the same humble rank 
 in life with himself. This girl was the 
 reputed niece of Glaude Anderson, a re- 
 spectable farmer, and a tenant also of Sir 
 William's. But, though reputed the niece 
 of this person, Peggy was, in truth, no re- 
 lation to him whatever. 
 
 The girl was a foundling, and honest 
 Glaude, her guardian, was in reality, as 
 ignorant of the circumstances of her birth 
 and of her parentage, as was the child 
 herself. He had found her, one summer 
 morning, carefully wrapped up in swad- 
 dling clothes, at his own door ; and being a 
 kind-hearted man, he had adopted the lit- 
 tle stranger ; and to rivet, as it were, the 
 affection he soon formed for her, he be- 
 stowed on her the title of propinquity al- 
 luded to ; and neither the girl herself nor 
 the world ever knew anything to the con- 
 trary. And on this girl Patie's love was 
 fixed, to her his heart was given, and to 
 him she yielded hers in return. 
 
 Thus stood matters with Patie and 
 Peggy, when intelligence arrived that Sir 
 William, who had now been absent for 
 many years, miirht soon be expected home, 
 as the kinn; had been restored and the 
 royal party was once more dominant. 
 
 This agreeable tidings created the most 
 lively sensations of joy amongst Sir Wil- 
 liam's tenantry, by all of whom he was 
 greatly beloved for his generosity of charac- 
 ter and pleasing condescension of manners. 
 
598 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 But to none of those who acknowledged 
 him as then- lord did this news afford such 
 happiness as to old Syinon Scott and 
 Glaude Anderson, who had always been 
 especial favorites of the good Sir William. 
 The moment these two worthy men heard 
 the tidings of their landlord's expected re- 
 tm-n, they simultaneously bethought them 
 of celebrating the event with a feast, each 
 insisting that he should be the giver. 
 Glaude, however, had been forestalled in 
 this particular by Symon, who had already 
 given orders for a sumptuous banquet to 
 be prepared, to which he invited Glaude, 
 and all the old and young folks in his im- 
 mediate neighborhood. After partaking 
 of a plentiful repast, the youngsters, male 
 and female, amongst whom were Patie and 
 Peggy, betook themselves to the green in 
 front of the house, to conclude the festivi- 
 ties of the day by a dance. 
 
 While the young people were thus joy- 
 ously engaged on the green, an old man 
 of venerable appearance, but whose dress 
 bespoke him a mendicant, suddenly pre- 
 sented himself amongst them, and began 
 to amuse them by telling their fortunes ; 
 a branch of business which he appeared to 
 have added to his regular callino; — that 
 of soliciting charity. The knowledge, 
 however, which the old man discovered 
 of many circumstances connected with 
 those whose future destinies he affected to 
 foretell, greatly surprised all who heard 
 him, and made such an impression on 
 Jenny, Glaude 's daughter, that she rushed 
 breathless into the house, where the old 
 people were enjoying themselves, and in- 
 formed them that a most extraordinary old 
 man, the most amazing fortune-teller that 
 ever was seen or heard of, had come 
 amongst them, and was now on the green 
 in front of the house. 
 
 Symon — all kindness and hospitality, 
 and resolved that no one should go past 
 his door hungry that day — desired Jenny 
 to bring the old man in, protesting, how- 
 ever, at the same time, that he had no 
 faith whatever in the soothsayer's pre- 
 
 tended gift of divination — a protest in 
 which ho was cordially joined by Glaude. 
 In a few seconds, Jenny returned, leading 
 in the old man, who was cordially wel- 
 comed by Simon, and immediately offered 
 entertainment and a night's lodjiins:. In 
 
 O CO 
 
 gratitude for this kindness, the old man 
 inquired if his host had no children, whose 
 future fortunes he desired to learn ; say- 
 ing, at the same time, that he would exert 
 his utmost skill to perform his task faith- 
 fully, whether it should be for good or 
 evil. To humor what he considered at 
 best a joke, Symon pointed to Patie, who, 
 with some of the other youngsters, had 
 now entered the house ; and said that he 
 was the only child he had. 
 
 On this, the old mendicant took hold of 
 Patie's hand, and, to the great alarm of 
 Symon's wife, told his auditors that there 
 was a particular mark on the young man's 
 body, just below the armpit — an assertion 
 which was so true, that Symon's wife, who 
 was the only person besides Patie himself 
 who knew of such a mark, immediately 
 accused the old fortune-teller of having 
 dealings with the Evil One. Paying no 
 attention to this remark, the prophet went 
 on to say, that, if the young man was 
 spared, he would, in a very short time, 
 become a great and wealthy landlord. 
 
 All, except Symon, treated this an- 
 nouncement with mirthful expressions of 
 distrust, and none with more marked dis- 
 belief and contempt that Patie himself, 
 who said that two whistles and a couple 
 of curs were all his property, and likely 
 ever to be. 
 
 It has been said that Symon presented 
 the only exception to the general incre- 
 dulity on this occasion, although he was 
 first to express disbelief in the prophet's 
 supernatural powers ; but for this there 
 was sufficient reason, as shall afterwards 
 appear. 
 
 The change in Symon's sentiments re- 
 garding the old man's gifts, did not 
 escape the notice of his friend, Glaude, 
 who bantered him on his altered tone, and 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 599 
 
 expressed the utmost astonishment that 
 he should allow himself to be imposed 
 upon by such absurdities. This open 
 contempt of his fidelity instantly called 
 down upon Glaude a rebuke from the 
 soothsayer, who not only insisted on the 
 soundness of his prediction, but added 
 that they would see that all he had fore- 
 told regarding Patie would be fulfilled ere 
 two short days should elapse. Seeing the 
 earnestness of the fortune-teller, Glaude 
 good-humoredly not only gave up the 
 point, but asked him to predict the future 
 fortunes of his own two daughters ; a task, 
 this, which the old man declined, allesfino; 
 that he had the gift of prophecy only once 
 a- day. 
 
 Having now exhausted his store of pre- 
 dictions, the mysterious visitor was invited 
 to place himself at the board, and to par- 
 take of some refreshment. This hospi- 
 tality, however, he begged his entertainers 
 to delay for a while, saying, he would ra- 
 ther go abroad for a little and enjoy the 
 calm air of the evening, and requested 
 that his host, Symon, would accompany 
 him ; a request with which the latter 
 readily complied. 
 
 On leaving Symon's house, the old man 
 directed his steps towards the deserted 
 and dilapidated mansion of Sir William 
 Preston, which was in the immediate 
 neighborhood ; and, as they approached it, 
 asked his con:jpanion to whom it belonged. 
 He was told ; and was further informed 
 that the ioyful tidino-s had come amono-st 
 Sir William's tenantry, that he would soon 
 be with them again. But what was ho- 
 nest Symon's joy — what his amazement — 
 to find, as he did at this moment, that the 
 event he announced as approaching, and 
 to which he looked forward with so much 
 pleasure and delight, had already taken 
 place ! 
 
 Hastily throwing off the disguise that 
 concealed him, the old mendicant — the 
 wandering fortune-teller — in an instant 
 stood before the almost incredulous eyes 
 of his humble but faithful friend, Symon, I 
 
 Sir William Preston himself, and none 
 other. 
 
 Astonished and delighted beyond mea- 
 sure at the extraordinary discovery, honest 
 Symon flung himself on the ground, and, 
 in a transport of joy, clasped Sir Wil- 
 liam's knees, and welcomed him to his 
 home. The good knight kindly raised 
 the old man ; and, embracing him affec- 
 tionately, asked for his boy. 
 
 Here our story requires a slight digres- 
 sion. When Sir William, who was a 
 widower, fled his native land to avoid the 
 vengeance of the popular party, he had, 
 previous to his departure, secretly con- 
 signed his only son, then a child, to the 
 guardianship of his faithful tenant, Symon, 
 with instructions however, that neither 
 the boy himself, nor any one else, should 
 ever be informed of his real descent — a 
 course which Sir William was induced to 
 pursue at once to save his son unavailing 
 regrets in after-life, should he never be 
 able to recover his rights for him, and to 
 reconcile him to the humble duties of 
 the lowly station to which it was more 
 than probable he should be, during his 
 lifetime, doomed. It need hardly now be 
 told, that Patie, Symon's protege, was 
 no other than the son and heir of Sir 
 William Preston ; and that it was of him 
 Sir William now inquired. 
 
 To all the inquiries which the latter 
 now made at Symon regarding his son, he 
 received the most pleasing and gratifying 
 replies ; and was delighted to learn, 
 amongst other things, that his education 
 had been carefully attended to. 
 
 Satisfied of this, and with other particu- 
 lars regarding the conduct, character, and 
 acquirements of his boy. Sir William next 
 anxiously inquired if his son had formed 
 no attachment unbefitting the station 
 which he was now about to assume. 
 
 On this important point, Symon ac- 
 knowledged that he feared the worst, as 
 he had lately discovered, he said, that 
 there existed a kindlier feeling between 
 the young man and Claude's niece, Peggy, 
 
60O 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 than he approved of; but added, that he 
 hoped the change of condition which now 
 awaited Patie, would induce him to break 
 off the connexion, and think no more of 
 his lowly lover ; and in this hope he was 
 very eagerly joined by Sir William, who 
 now desired Symon to bring his son to 
 him, and to intimate openly, to all whom 
 it concerned, that he was returned. 
 
 There being now no longer any reason 
 for concealing Patie 's real descent, the 
 intelligence that the humble shepherd was 
 no other than the son and heir of Sir 
 William Preston — and, in consequence of 
 his father's return, was now about to step 
 into the elevated station to which that im- 
 portant circumstance entitled him— rapid- 
 ly spread around, and created a universal 
 feeling of surprise, and no small joy, as 
 Patie had been a general favorite. But 
 there was one on whom this intelligence 
 had a very contrary effect to that of in- 
 spiring joy. 
 
 This was Peggy. In the discovery that 
 her Patie was no longer the humble shep- 
 herd that had won her heart, but a gentle- 
 man of rank and fortune, the warm-heart- 
 ed girl saw the utter annihilation of all 
 her fondest and dearest hopes, and gave 
 way to feelings of the deepest despair ; for 
 ehe dared not to think otherwise than that 
 she and her lover should now be sundered 
 for ever. But, in coming to this conclu- 
 sion, she had not made sufficient allow- 
 ance for the strength of Patie 's attach- 
 ment, nor for the generous and noble 
 nature of his character, which would not 
 permit him to find, in a mere change of 
 worldly circumstances, an apology for 
 broken vows. But, in truth, it required 
 no considerations of a moral kind to in- 
 duce Patie to keep faith with his lover ; 
 his affection for her alone was all-sufficient 
 for this purpose, and determined him to 
 remain faithful to her, whatever might be 
 the consequences. Abiding in this reso- 
 lution, and determined to act up to it, he 
 flew to his beloved Peggy, whom he found 
 in tears and despair, to assure her that the 
 
 change in his condition had not, and never 
 would effect, any change in his sentiments 
 towards her, and that, as the son and 
 heir of Sir William Preston, he should 
 remain as constant to his love as if he had 
 continued to be the humble shepherd who 
 had wooed and won her heart. 
 
 On the day following these events, seve- 
 ral persons, and, amongst them, Peggy, 
 having assembled at Symon's house, where 
 Sir William was sojourning for the time, 
 the latter, attracted by the singular beauty 
 of Patie's lover, whom he did not know by 
 sight, and forcibly struck by a strong re- 
 semblance which he fancied she bore to 
 his own sister, eagerly inquired who she 
 was. Glaude, who was present, replied 
 that she was his niece ; but, instantly after, 
 contradicted himself, by confessedly say- 
 ing she was not his niece. The honest man 
 was, in truth, perplexed at the moment 
 with two opposing considerations, and far- 
 ther led astray by the force of habit. He 
 had called Peggy his niece on this occa- 
 sion, because he had long accustomed 
 himself to give her that title, and, indeed, 
 to view her in the light of such a relative; 
 but he, at this moment, felt that Sir Wil- 
 liam had a right to expect the truth from 
 him ; and on this, indeed, the knight now 
 somewhat peremptorily insisted, when 
 Glaude acknowledged that Peggy was a 
 foundling, and proceeded to describe the 
 circumstances connected with the finding 
 of the infant, which have been already 
 told ; but more than these, Glaude said he 
 could not tell. The information, how- 
 ever, in which Glaude was deficient, was, 
 to the astonishment and delight of all pre- 
 sent, more especially to that of Sir Wil- 
 liam, whose curiosity was greatly excited, 
 furnished on the spot, and from a very 
 unexpected quarter. 
 
 No sooner had Glaude finished his ac- 
 count of the foundling, than an old woman 
 of the name of Mause Templeton, who 
 was present, seizing Peggy hy the hand, 
 led her up to Sir William, and asked the 
 , knisiht if asce had effected such a change 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 601 
 
 on her countenance that he did not recog- 
 nise in her the nurse of his sister — the 
 nurse of the mother of the girl she now 
 held in her hand. After a moment's 
 pause, Sir William acknowledged his per- 
 fect recollection of her ; and seeking no 
 farther testimony than her assurance, 
 added to his own convictions, from the 
 likeness he had discerned, that the girl 
 who stood before him was indeed his niece, 
 he tenderly embraced her and made her 
 take a seat beside him, until he should 
 hear from Mause, what he now requested 
 she should give, a detail of the circum- 
 stances that had entailed such a singular 
 fate on his niece. 
 
 Mause proceeded to say that, when 
 Peggy was an infant, she was informed, 
 by a person on whom she had every re- 
 liance, that the child's life, her parents 
 being dead, was threatened by an uncle's 
 wife, in order to come at the large pro- 
 perty to which she was heir, and between 
 which and this avaricious and unnatural 
 relative the infant was the only obstacle. 
 That, having a perfect assurance of this 
 atrocious design, she stole away the child 
 from its faithless guardians, Peggy's uncle 
 and his wife, and having carried it, by 
 easy stages of a few miles each day, at 
 length arrived with her tender charge in 
 that part of the country where they now 
 were. Being afraid of a discovery, if she 
 
 -«-4^»^ 
 
 THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 I HAVE prevailed upon the jailor, under 
 whose care I am, to take off my heavy 
 manacles, to allow me to write the follow- 
 ing particulars, which I intend shall see 
 the light, though not until my poor mother 
 is dead ; for 1 cannot bear to think that 
 
 she should ever know that the memoirs of 
 her son's misfortunes should, as a dying 
 speech and declaration, be handed about, 
 to court the eye and gratify the curiosity 
 of the public. It is not that I have any 
 warning to make, or any beacon to exhibit, 
 
 retained the child, she then determined 
 on the step which put the infant into 
 Glaude's possession. But, though soon 
 satisfied that the child was in safe and 
 good k'eeping, she resolved still to watch 
 over it, and with this view took a small \ 
 cottage in the neighborhood, where she 
 had lived ever since, and where, unknown 
 to Peggy herself, or to any one else, she 
 had watched over her with all the anxiety 
 of a mother. 
 
 When Mause concluded her story. Pa- 
 tie, now Mr. Patrick Preston — who had 
 been present during the whole of this sin- 
 gular and interesting scene — flew towards 
 Peggy, and at once perceiving that the 
 discovery which had just been made of 
 her real parentage and descent must re- 
 move every objection which his father 
 could possibly entertain to their union, he 
 embraced her, when they both knelt be- 
 fore Sir William, and besought his bless- 
 ing, which the delighted father and uncle 
 readily gave ; intimating, at the same time, 
 his determination to lose no time in strip- 
 ping Peggy's unnatural relations of their 
 ill-got gains, and restoring them to their 
 rightful owner. And now if ever unalloy- 
 ed felicity was the lot of man, it was at 
 this moment that of Patie, the Gentle 
 Shepherd, whose union with Peggy, we 
 need hardly add, almost immediately fol- 
 lowed. 
 
602 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 whereby I miglit save others from the fate 
 that, like a mighty snake, binds my body, 
 and leaves this hand free, only to the effect 
 of telling the number of its scaly folds 
 with which I am entwined. It is not like- 
 ly that any human being may ever be in 
 my situation again. My object is to 
 arraign the justice (injustice) of the blood- 
 written laws of my country ; and to show 
 that, while the statutes remain unaltered, 
 unmodified — the rules of evidence un- 
 chancred — the hano-man retains his name — 
 the rope is made of hemp — and all the 
 black formula of death is much the same 
 as it was centuries ao-o — all other institu- 
 tions and usages are undergoing a change, 
 and man is becoming emancipated from 
 the vslavery of institutions whose iron 
 chains were forged in the heat of war and 
 rapine. Capital punishments — applied 
 upon the lying evidence, the hurried trials, 
 the stultified verdicts, the confused acts of 
 our statute-book, for crimes of all dies 
 and grades, from the stealing of a sheep to 
 the taking away of the breath of life from 
 the nostrils of God's elect of all living- 
 creatures — arc the disgrace of the nation 
 of England. If common humanity has no 
 place in the breasts of our legislators, let 
 my case speak : it has a language of its 
 own, such as, perhaps, never before peal- 
 ed from a heart crushed by tyrannical in- 
 stitutions and perverted justice : it speaks 
 of innocence punished by death — a subject 
 fitted for the mediation of angels — and 
 proves that, when the conservative princi- 
 ple of punijtion is carried beyond a cer- 
 tain point of severity, the endless posi- 
 tions of an ever-varying society may pro- 
 duce instances of injustice that cannot be 
 atoned for by tears of blood. I was born 
 in the town of Ayr, on the west side of 
 Scotland, and brought up, after the death 
 of my father, which happened when I was 
 very young, by my mother, a good and 
 godly woman, who taught her son to seek 
 Him " that makcth the seven stars and 
 Orion, and turneth the shadow of death 
 into the mornins;." There are few 
 
 Scotch mothers that do not try to inculcate 
 on their children the principles of reli- 
 gion ; but there are fewer that accomplish 
 their task with so much efficacy as my 
 parent, for I was naturally inclined to be 
 pious, and loved more fervently than others 
 do the harp of the mountain, that is tuned 
 to the genius of Scottish music, the melo- 
 dy of Israel's beloved viols. Nor was 
 it with me, as with many young people, 
 that the flame of religion was fanned be- 
 fore the sense to understand its principles 
 had acquired strength ; for, before I was 
 eight years of age, I understood the great 
 scheme of mediation, while my tears flow- 
 ed in gratitude for the wonderful sacrifice 
 by which it was perfected. These thoughts 
 distract me ; and who is there that could 
 look back, an innocent man, from the dark 
 cells of a jail, on that scene of youth and 
 innocence when the teacher and parent sat 
 by us over the winter fire, and opened to 
 our young fancies all the wonders of a sav- 
 ing providence, and not cry, with tears, 
 What has come out of the light of that 
 sun ? Was I not taug;ht that " the inheri- 
 tance of the Almighty is destruction to 
 the wicked," and " a strange punishment 
 to the workers of iniquity" — strange, in- 
 deed, to be condemned to die for a crime 
 of which one is innocent ! 
 
 It was by the work of her hands that my 
 poor mother brought me up to the verge of 
 manhood. " She," as the Temanito said, 
 '^ wandered abroad for bread," for " trouble 
 and anguish made her afraid ;" but, if toil 
 was heavy for her, the weight was lighten- 
 ed by the thought, that what she earned 
 would be blessed by her son, with the 
 grace of thanks to Him that gives what is 
 good for both body and soul. It was a 
 sight good for the proud hearts of the great 
 — but they saw it not — that poor widowed 
 creature, straining her weak nerves, and 
 bathing her brow with the sweat of a pain- 
 ful toil, yet, through all, sustaining her 
 spirit by the hope of her son, whose in- 
 dustry would, by the grace she taught him, 
 return to her fifty-fold, when she could work 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 603 
 
 no lono-er, the seed she travailed to sow. 
 She saw not, and it was good for her, the 
 darkness that was coming ; neither did she 
 hear from a hovering spirit that it would 
 have been better for both of us if I had 
 never been born, or that I had been carri- 
 ed froDi the cradle to the grave. So far 
 m}'- mother's efforts succeeded. I was 
 comfortably fed and decently clothed, and, 
 beyond all, a good soil was prepared for 
 the education which she hoped also to be 
 able to procure for me ; but the assistance 
 of another was required for that, and the 
 master whom my father had served— a 
 landed proprietor in the neighborhood, of 
 the name of Pringle — contributed to that 
 desirable object ; but he stopt short in his 
 generosity ; and a distant relation by my 
 father's side, an engraver, of the name of 
 Holmes, took me, when very young, into 
 his shop, where I remained for about a 
 year, when, my master having died, I was 
 again thrown back on my mother. Mr. 
 Prino-le again came forward, and prevailed 
 upon my reluctant parent, who had cher- 
 ished higher hopes for me, to allow me to 
 become a servant in his house. This re- 
 sult of her long labor and weary toil made 
 my mother weep " with the weeping of 
 Jazer ;" but, as destiny was to her ever 
 the will of the Lord, that tends for good, 
 though all unseen by mortal eye, she dried 
 up her tears, and consented quietly, like 
 her who inhabited Debon, to come down 
 from her glory and " sit in thirst." 
 
 I had been, I think, about four years with 
 Mr. Pringle, and was now entrusted with 
 the duties of his valet — a species of ser- 
 vants exposed to much contumely, and 
 prehaps thereby rendered in their turn 
 less worthy of the confidence of their 
 masters. Religion has seldom any place 
 amono" them ; and the principles which I 
 professed exposed me to some badinage, 
 which made me follow the practice of the 
 children of good men in the land of Egypt, 
 who " did sacrifice secretly." I was 
 steadfast in my covenant, and true to her 
 who bound my heart to it in my younger 
 
 days. A great part of my wages I remitted 
 to my parent, and I would not have given 
 the blessing of her thanks for the smiles 
 of great men, and judges, and potentates ; 
 for who " among them is greater than he 
 who honoreth his mother .^" Yet, at this 
 time, I allowed my heart to be divided 
 in affections, and disobeyed the injunc- 
 tion of Ecclesiasticus — " gaze not upon 
 a maid." But I would have been more 
 than man if I could have seen the beauti- 
 ful comforter of my parent, and not felt 
 my love "kindle as afire." An orphan, 
 of the name of Magdalene Dempster, who 
 was brought up with a poor neighbor, was 
 frequently in my mother's house on the 
 evenings of Sunday, when I made it my 
 filial duty to pass there as much of my 
 time as I could spare from my service. 
 This young woman's looks would have se- 
 cured a conquest over me, though she had 
 made no claims on my heart, by her atten- 
 tion to my parent. I conceived a strong 
 passion for her, and soon learned the joy- 
 ful tidings that she loved me. My mother 
 observed the state of our feelings, and did 
 not disapprove of my choice ; for she 
 knew that, as the prophet says, " there is 
 a time to get and a time to lose," and he 
 who loses the opportunity of getting a 
 good helpmate in the pilgrimage of life, 
 may fall into the hands of those who love 
 him only for what may be got from him. 
 That period of my pilgrimage was the only 
 one on which the sun of life's happiness 
 had as yet cast a beam to cheer me on ; 
 but I did not know that the life of man is 
 only as the face of the heavens, whose 
 gilded clouds foretell a storm. My plea- 
 sure made my heart shake, and give forth 
 sweet sounds, as a timbrel that is struck 
 in joy. Magdalene came and met me on 
 the way as I went to my mother's ; and 
 when the sun was not far spent, we sat us 
 down among the yellow broom, and were 
 happier than they who " feed among the 
 lilies." In the evening when I came away, 
 she accompanied me a short distance on 
 the road, that we might have every avail- 
 
604 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 able moment of each other's company ; and 
 when we parted, it was to carry with us in 
 our hearts an affection that would increase 
 every moment till we met again. Thus 
 passed a year, and I became impatient of 
 a delay to the gratification of the object 
 that, next to my mother's happiness, lay 
 nearest to my heart. I got Mr. Pringle's 
 consent to marry. We were married ; 
 and, in the meantime, Magdalene staid 
 with my mother, till a cottage, which was 
 expected to be empty at the end of six 
 months, should bo ready for our residence. 
 Little more than four months had pass- 
 ed, after my marriage, when Mr. Pringle — 
 my kind master and friend — died, and my 
 services were not required by the p-erson 
 who succeeded him. Though an orphan, 
 I had not as yet tasted the bitter cup of 
 life. It was now to be placed before me. 
 But I had read that acceptable men are 
 tried in the furnace of adversity. I took 
 up my residence, for a short time, with my 
 mother, in the expectation of being suc- 
 cessful in getting a situation, as butler, 
 with some of the gentlemen who had visit- 
 ed my old master, and heard from his lips 
 those merits which came out of the bless- 
 in o- of a mother. I tried many of them ; 
 but every evening brought me home un- 
 successful. ^' Ye that fear the Lord," 
 said my mother, from the Prophet, " wait 
 for his mercy ;" and Magdalene threw 
 into my countenance the cheerful light of 
 loving eyes. Between these comforts, my 
 I disappointments were not, for a time, ill to 
 bear. I would have been a bold man to 
 have repined, with such a mother to pour 
 into my bosom the sustaining love that is 
 from beyond Orion, and a wife who was 
 fairer " than a cluster of camphire in the 
 i vineyards of Engodi." Yet 1 began to 
 suffer by feeling for my comforters. JMy 
 ' mother had nothing to trust to but my 
 1 earnings, and my Magdalene had been a 
 I dependent on the charity of others since 
 I her earliest childhood. My faith was a 
 I rational one ; and I knew that it is not the 
 I way of God to feed the body by his spirit, 
 
 nor the manner of love — though his wings 
 drop with myrrh — to satisfy aught but the 
 appetite of the heart. Our money dwin- 
 dled away ; and my hopes came back in 
 the evening with no vine branch or fig-leaf 
 to tell that the waters of misfortune had 
 left the places where our food grew. But, 
 whatever I felt, I expressed little ; for I 
 knew that my mother would have been 
 pained by a murmur, more by its evidenc- 
 ing a want of faith than a want of food. 
 
 The time came when all I had in the 
 world was a pound note. I had been in 
 the receipt of some chances at the inn ; 
 but these did not prevent the daily de- 
 crease of my small stock, till it came to 
 that low ebb. I had almost resolved upon 
 going to Edinburgh, and trying my fortune 
 there, when, as I stood meditating on my 
 dreary prospect, a gentleman of extreme- 
 ly genteel appearance alighted at the inn 
 door, from a roan gelding. I held the 
 bridle as he descended, and remarked that 
 he looked at me more intently than stran- 
 gers are in the habit of doing. He asked 
 me to attend to his horse, and went into ' 
 the inn, where he had not been long when 
 he sent for me, and stated that he was on 
 the outlook for a trusty servant — he was 
 on his way to London, and had been basely 
 deserted by his former valet, who had de- 
 camped, and taken with him a horse valu- 
 ed at fifty guineas. I replied that I would 
 willingly accept of a fair offer ; and we 
 soon came to an agreement. My wages 
 were to be fifty pounds a- year, with livery 
 and chances. He gave me money, on the 
 instant, to get a suit of clothes, and re- 
 quested me to look out for another horse, 
 as his time would not permit of any search 
 after the one he had been robbed of. His 
 name was Mr. Caleb Winter — he was an 
 Endishman — one of the finest-lookino; 
 fellows, as well as the pleasantost, 1 had 
 ever yet seen. His family, it appeared, 
 lived in Ensfland. He had been on a 
 tour to the Highlands, and was now on his 
 return to London. 
 
 1 went home, and communicated the in- 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 605 
 
 telligence to my mother and Magdalene. 
 I need hardly say they rejoiced at it, even 
 though the good came with the qualifica- 
 tion of the separation, for a time, of me 
 and my wife. Even in this however, there 
 was a mixture of good. She would con- 
 tribute, in my absence, to the comfort of 
 my parent ; and the remittances I would 
 be able to make from my income would 
 support them, under the guidance of Him 
 who is bountiful, and " ready to give 
 where it needeth." Thus passed away 
 a day of darkness, " as the morning spread 
 upon the mountains." I bestirred my- 
 self actively in my new vocation, got into 
 better spirits, dressed myself in my new 
 livery, and bought a horse, to the satisfac- 
 tion of my master, for my own use. We 
 were now to depart for London. My good 
 mother " gathered the children, and sancti- 
 fied them ;" and my Magdalene hung 
 round my neck, weeping and sobbing as if 
 she had been a yesterday's bride, of one 
 day's joy, preparing for separation. She 
 bore up well againstmy departure, till the 
 ceremony came, which, opening as if by 
 magic the floodgates of her feeling, show- 
 ed the depth of a faithful wife's affection. 
 I was myself as strongly affected as she ; 
 but I contrived to make good use of that 
 power which seems to be peculiar to our 
 sex— something inexplicable, but in which 
 shame has no inconsiderable part — to con- 
 ceal the natural emotions inseparable from 
 a departure — saying, " Peace ! peace ! 
 where there was no peace ;" and, forcino- 
 myself from her arms, I was soon on my 
 way to London. 
 
 i found in Mr. Winter a free, affable 
 man, forming, as regarded his manners 
 generally, and his conduct towards his ser- 
 vant, a remarkable contrast to the gentle- 
 men of the same grade in Scotland. Like 
 the most part of his kind, however, he 
 seemed to have but a very indifi'erent feel- 
 ing towards religion. I could have for- 
 given in him an occasional choleric oath, 
 which did not make free with Scriptural 
 names ; but he was " as fed horses in the 
 
 morning that neigh as they snuff the 
 breeze" — he seemed to think that all pow- 
 er in this world was centred in man, and 
 that he had only to speak that what he 
 wished might be performed. This might 
 be the ardor of young blood ; but he 
 passed kirks where the word was spoken, 
 and never entered ; he prayed not a word 
 that I could ever hear ; he turned him 
 daintily round on his saddle to look at a 
 fair-faced giglot, as she passed, with the 
 jaunty briskness of pride, on the way; 
 and I even saw him smile, in a manner that 
 savoured of luxury, on a pretty baggage 
 of a bar-maid, whose eye held the " stock 
 of a doctrine of vanities." Yet I could 
 find no farther evil in him ; for he never 
 exceeded in the brutish folly of wine — he 
 was liberal to a fault — gave freely to the 
 poor whom we met in the broad ways — 
 and had a good open " circumcised ear," 
 which bore my freedoms of speech with 
 meekness and composure. At least, how- 
 ever, he seemed to me a riddle which my 
 Scotch wits could not solve, for he ap- 
 peared good and ill by turns — one moment 
 being glad, and even piping music like the 
 birds that fluttered and sang in the hedges 
 — a minute after, his throat seeming as 
 dry and desolate as the bed of Nimrim, 
 and a word he would not speak to me or 
 any one else — then falling into a gloom 
 which lasted for many hours, when he 
 would not face man, for fear he might be 
 interrupted in his meditations. These 
 appeared to me strange contradictions ; 
 but a servant has no right to judge harsh- 
 ly of the master whose bread he breaks ; 
 and I never loved prying, " for a fool will 
 peep in at the door into the house, while 
 he that is well nurtured will stand with- 
 out." 
 
 On arriving in London, we put up at 
 an inn where we fared sumptuously, for 
 Mr. Winter seemed to care no more for 
 money than if he had been master of his 
 own mint. In the evening he went out, 
 and when he returned, he told me that he 
 had been bargaining for a house ; and, ac- 
 
606 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 cordiDgly, next clay, we took up our habi- 
 tation in a dwelling in the Haymarket, 
 consisting of two divisions, an upper and 
 a lower — the latter of which he intended 
 for me. He wanted a maid-servant, and 
 suggested that I should write down to Ayr 
 for Magdalene, who would serve in that 
 capacity. Overjoyed at this intelligence, I 
 complied upon the instant, despatching a 
 letter to her, and also one to my mother, in 
 the latter of which I enclosed a ten-pound 
 note which my master had generously 
 given me for the purpose of paying Mag- 
 dalene's expenses to London. 1 remem- 
 ber at this moment, and the hand trembles 
 and makes the chains in which I am bound 
 clank in my ears, as 1 think of the joy I 
 felt in writing and despatching these let- 
 ters, and enclosing " this oblation of the 
 holy portion," which I kissed with tears 
 of joy over and over before I committed it 
 to the envelope. I was hastening with the 
 letters to the Post Office, when my master 
 called me back ; and, upon going up stairs 
 to the part of the mansion which he wished 
 to keep for his own purposes of study, he 
 told me that he wished to pay the land- 
 lord of the house in advance, to avoid ask- 
 ing his friends, who wished him to go to 
 reside with them, to become security for 
 him ; and, opening his pocket-book, he 
 gave me fifteen pounds, requesting me to 
 call upon Mr. William Havering in White- 
 chapel, to pay it to him, and be sure to 
 get a proper receipt. 
 
 " Tell him," he added, " that you are 
 come to pay the rent of the house in the 
 Haymarket, No. 12 — neither more nor 
 less. I like few words ; but, as I am an 
 honorable, open-minded man, and hate 
 even the appearance of anything like se- 
 crecy, I must tell you, because otherwise 
 you may attribute the way in which I 
 mean to live for some time to something 
 not right, that I intend to keep out of the 
 way of my father, Mr. Alfred Winter, of 
 Holmside, in Hertfordshire, but now, I 
 understand, in Loudon, in order to avoid a 
 marriage which he and the lady's mother 
 
 have planned for me, to which, I must ad- 
 mit, I am in some degree committed — 
 though not an obligatory honor — and 
 which, if I avoid by keeping out of the 
 way, I may save myself from much pain, 
 and the lady and her secretly-betrothed 
 lover (a companion of my own) from un- 
 merited misery . I have already passed a part 
 of my time in Scotland ; but I am wearied 
 of travelling, and now intend to occupy 
 myself here secretly in pursuing a favorite 
 study, till I ascertain that my father des- 
 pairs of ever acquiring my consent, and 
 the lady's mother yields to the solicita- 
 tions of her daughter, to allow her to 
 marry the man she likes. This is enough 
 for you, and will account for anything in 
 my conduct which may appear to you cu- 
 rious or inexplicable, and, by exciting 
 curiosity, give rise to surmises and latent 
 inquiries. Such I abominate. You will 
 find that the receipt you get for the rent 
 of the house will be in your own nmne, 
 and you will of course regulate your con- 
 duct so as not to produce any inconsisten- 
 cy between your real and assmned cha- 
 racter." 
 
 It was nearly upon the hour of the shut- 
 ting of the Post Office, and my thoughts 
 were more directed to my mother and 
 Magdalene than to the subject of my mas- 
 ter's speech, though I felt a glow of 
 gratitude burning in my veins for the con- 
 fidence he reposed in me, and while I saw 
 that the slio-ht deceit he was exercisinir, 
 and wished me to participate in, was 
 for good, in so far as it would bring two 
 happy lovers together, who might other- 
 wise drink of the waters of bitterness unto 
 death. I recollected the words of Solo- 
 mon, that " a prudent man concealeth 
 knowledge," and told him that I would be 
 faithful to him in all thino;s that tended 
 to good without a view to reward. Re- 
 ceiving the money, I hastened away, and 
 soon got to the Post Office, where, with 
 eyes directed to heaven, I deposited the 
 1 pledge of a son's love and a husband's 
 fidelity. I then went to Mr. Havering's, 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 607 
 
 and told him I had come to pay the rent of 
 the house, No. 12, Haymarket. He had 
 the receipt prepared, and handed it over 
 to me without saying a word — a circum- 
 stance that relieved me of the apprehen- 
 sion under which I labored, that I might 
 be forced to parry his questions, and be 
 precipitated unwittingly, or from the re- 
 gard 1 had to my master, and the anxiety 
 I felt for the praiseworthy cause in which 
 he was engaged, into some duplicity — a 
 thing, of all others, I had been taught, by 
 my incomparable parent, to hate as the 
 origin of all evil — the first aspect of the 
 insidious enemy of man, and the first en- 
 croacher upon the province of that grand 
 entireness of the virtuous mind, which 
 says, with him who sung to the chief mu- 
 sician, that sentence, containing all purity, 
 "Oh, let me never be ashamed!" I 
 glanced at the receipt ; it was in favor of 
 Mr. Joseph Bannerman — that name (my 
 own) which now rings in my ears as I pro- 
 nounce it, as something not belonging to man 
 — making me shudder till my irons rattle 
 again through that dreadful cell, and echo 
 away into the dark recesses of felons, like 
 the sounds of the damned. I hastened 
 home, and went up stairs to my master's 
 private apartment. The door was locked, 
 inconsequence, doubtless, of his apprehen- 
 sion of some visit from his relations while 
 I was out. I told him I had come with 
 the receipt; and he opened the door, 
 taking the paper from me in the passage, 
 and asking me, in a hurried manner, if 
 Mr. Havering had put any questions. I 
 answered that he had not, and retired to 
 my bed in the lower part of the house. 
 
 My mind was too much excited to al- 
 low me to sleep. An enthusiasm belong- 
 ing to a mind easily fired by the inspira- 
 tion of virtuous feelings, set my heart in 
 flame, and I pictured the most glowing 
 images of my mother and Magdalene 
 sitting by the side of their little flickering 
 ingle, looking into it for auguries, after the 
 manner of the Scotch, or reading by its 
 light some portion of the holy book, having 
 
 reference to my pilgrimage in a compara- 
 tively foreign land, when, as the tear start- 
 ed to my mother's eyes, as she was read- 
 ing, "My son, if sinners - entice thee, 
 consent thou not ; cast in thy lot among 
 us, let us all have one purse" — my letters 
 would be brought to them, the ofiering of 
 love would be kissed, my Magdalene would 
 weep for very joy, and count how much of 
 the money she could leave with my mother, 
 who, as she heard her dutiful step-daugh- 
 ter's destination, would bless her and me 
 — " for this shall his and your days be 
 multiplied, and the years of your lives in- 
 creased." The train of images continued ; 
 and so sweet was the luxui-y of this por- 
 traying, by the aid of a glowing fancy, the 
 happiness of these individuals in whom all 
 my heart was garnered up — the husband's 
 love and the son's holy reverence and 
 sweet hallowed affection mingling together, 
 and satisfying, by one engrossing feeling all 
 the desires that belong to heaven and 
 earth — I could have renounced the blessino^ 
 of sleep, and thought on and on for ever. 
 I heard the clock strike two, and was 
 somewhat surprised to find that my mas- 
 ter had not gone to bed— his foot sounded 
 lightly on the floor, and he seemed busily 
 engaged in those studies to which he was 
 addicted, but the nature of which I had 
 no opportunity of ascertaining. I never 
 was curiously inclined, and I was satisfied 
 that a man who acted on the noble princi- 
 ple of self-denial that now regulated his 
 conduct, was " as the pure whose work is 
 right ;" and having expended every bliss- 
 ful energy of my fancy in calling up the 
 images of my wife and mother, 1 fell into 
 a sound sleep, from which I did not awake 
 till beyond the proper hour of a servant's 
 rising in the morning. 
 
 I rose hurriedly, thinking that my mas- 
 ter would be waiting for his breakfast, and 
 was not ill-pleased to find that he was still 
 in bed. I got his morning meal prepared 
 according to the instructions I had re- 
 ceived from him, and went up to tell him 
 the hour. I required to rap for some time 
 
608 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 before he heard me ; aud at last he came, 
 and opened the door of the outer room, 
 Tvhich he had set apart as a species of 
 small dining-room — the inner apartment, 
 which communicated with a small bedroom, 
 being that appropriated to his studies. I 
 set the breakfast ; and, after he had par- 
 taken of it, he called me up, and gave nie 
 further directions, as to how I should con- 
 duct myself, with a view to keep his secret ; 
 all of which were reasonable, and not in- 
 consistent with the views of religion and 
 morality J had imbibed from my mother. 
 He then told me to go and dispose of his 
 horses, as he would not require them, 
 while he was thus living in secret, and he 
 could buy others when he again joined so- 
 ciety and resumed his proper station in 
 life. He cared nothing for money, his 
 spirit, as it appeared to me, soaring far 
 above such mean considerations as gene- 
 rally occupy the souls of immortal creatures 
 in this world. I mio;ht get what 1 could 
 for the horses — it was all one whether he 
 made or lost by them. "• Happy is the 
 man," I said to myself, as I looked on the 
 noble figure of the youth, as he stood be- 
 fore me, expressing his contempt of that 
 which opens the doors of Gehinna — 
 *' happy is the man that findeth wisdom ; 
 for the merchandise of it — it is better 
 than the merchandise of silver, and the 
 gain thereof than fine gold." I did as he 
 desired, and in the afternoon returned 
 with the prices of the horses. I made £10 
 upon the one 1 rode, and the other brought 
 its original price. He scarcely counted 
 the money, which, I recollect, was in five 
 pound-notes. He laid it down on the ta- 
 ble •, and, in a short time, called me up 
 again, and told me to go and get the money 
 turned into small notes, which he said he 
 required for various little purposes of 
 charity. " It is upon the wings of chari- 
 ty," he added, with a smile that made me 
 love him, and forget the former incon- 
 sistencies I had observed in him — " It is 
 upon the wings of charity that a man 
 getteth to Heaven ;" and I was not slow 
 
 in ray answer, that " he that giveth to 
 the poor shall not lack." I went with 
 increased energy to obey his command; 
 and, though I had many shops to go 
 through before I got all the notes changed 
 into small ones, I rejoiced that I was in the 
 service of him who looked down upon 
 charity as the sun upon the earth when 
 his rays are softened by the breath of the 
 morning. Having succeeded in getting 
 all the notes changed, I returned, made a 
 faithful account to him, and was as well 
 pleased with my labors as if I had been 
 occupied in distributing the money among 
 the poor, and saving my excellent master 
 from the blessed labor of doing so himself. 
 
 I now felicitated myself on my enviable 
 situation ; and there was no part of the 
 conduct of my master towards me that de- 
 lighted me more than the entire confidence 
 he placed in me ; for I felt proud to think 
 that my mother's invaluable precepts were 
 thus made apparent in their workings, and 
 could not doubt that, " as the spirit of a 
 man is the candle of the Lord," my virtue 
 and fidelity, shining through every part of 
 my conduct had secured for me the confi- 
 dence of a good man. I was on the eve 
 of experiencing more of his absolute faith 
 in me ; for, on the very next day, I was 
 surprised by receiving, through the two- 
 penny post, a letter containing a bank of 
 England note for .£50. There was no 
 writing in the letter beyond the two initials 
 of G. B. ; and, knowing in an instant that 
 it would be for my master, I took it up to 
 him. I was right — it was intended for him. 
 
 " Mr. Barrow, my agent, has been as 
 good as his word," he said, as he took the 
 letter from me ; '^ and in this I have 
 another instance of your fidelity. From 
 the first word you spoke I saw you had 
 been properly tutored — probably by some 
 excellent parent ; and, indeed, with the 
 exception of his wishing me to marry 
 against my will, my father has been to me 
 an excellent counsellor. But fidelity 
 ought to be rewarded with more than 
 words.'' 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 609 
 
 And, as he spoke he made me a hand- 
 some present, which I received with tears 
 of gratitude ; yet, the gift was not half so 
 dear to me as the words by which it was 
 accompanied ; and I could have hugged 
 him to my bosom for his allusion to one 
 who had '^ given me the inheritance of 
 Israel," and '^ smote the first born" of a 
 sinful heart, that all that came thereafter 
 might be good. Every day showed me 
 more and more how happy I would be 
 when my Magdalene arrived ; and, after 
 several days, during which I felt myself 
 more a master who commands than a ser- 
 vant who breaks the bread of his lord, I 
 looked anxiously for her arrival. I set 
 about preparing everything, in the part of 
 the house appropriated to us, in such a 
 manner as would show, at the first glance, 
 that I had not sent for her in vain ; and, 
 though I could not say " I had perfumed 
 our bed with myrrh, and olives, and cin- 
 namon," I could exhibit to her a habita- 
 tion of peace, where (by my master's 
 kindness) there was every comfort that 
 could contribute to the happiness of vir- 
 tuous affection. How strangely does love 
 exhibit itself! I fixed on the warmest 
 corner of the ingle where her chair should 
 stand — it was already occupied by the eye 
 of my fancy — I saw her sitting there, dis- 
 coursing to me of Broad Albin, and happy 
 Coll, and of her she had left in it dearer 
 to me than all. The tear that glistened 
 in her eye as she delivered to me my mo- 
 ther's blessing, I saw dry up as she turned 
 to view the new gown I had bought for 
 her ; and I felt the glow of the kiss of her 
 thanks as she threw herself on my bosom, 
 and yielded to the hysterical expression 
 of nature's softest emotions, in her own 
 impressive and heart-touching languao-e. 
 Oh, why do I dwell on these soul- intoxi- 
 cating fancies, when they were realized, 
 ay, enjoyed, as those elaborately contrived 
 enjoyments which glide over the earth as 
 the avant-couriers of the destroyer ! My 
 Magdalene arrived. I was looking out at 
 the window at the time, thinking of her, 
 
 VOL. ir. 
 
 76 
 
 when I saw her coming along, looking 
 anxiously at the numbers of the houses. I 
 needed but one glance of an eye, whose 
 light was to me as that of " the moon 
 walking in brightness," and in an instant 
 she was in my arms. My warmest dreams 
 were changed into realities. We had both 
 Elihu's zeal to speak, and Elihu's silence, 
 till the first emotions died " by their own 
 strength;" and then I got my parent's 
 renewed blessing — the pledge of undimin- 
 ished love — the pretty gossip of woman's 
 lips, sweeter than the inspiration of poets, 
 till, hour by hour, the realities of our new 
 situation broke gradually in upon '^ our 
 love's young dream ;" and I recounted to 
 her the enviable situation I held ; showed 
 the house of which she was, as it were, 
 mistress ; the excellent character of my 
 master ; the secret of his position ; the 
 confidence he trusted in me ; the presents 
 I had got from him ; till her eyes glisten- 
 ed again as brightly as they had done in 
 the fire of love ; and we were so happy, 
 that we were like to have made an image 
 like that of Horeb, and fallen before the 
 golden idol. 
 
 A very few days soon discovered to 
 Magdalene greater than she had yet seen, 
 and everything seemed to prosper with us. 
 In about a month afterwards, I sent my 
 mother another five-pound note, which I 
 got from my master, in whose praises 
 Magdalene was higher than even myself. 
 She attended him often when I was en- 
 gaged in going his messages ; and every 
 new phase of his character seemed to 
 charm her the more. His carelessness of 
 money absolutely dazzled her simple, fru- 
 gal mind; and those noble qualities he 
 exhibited to her, were not dimmed by the 
 discovery that he had, as she thought, a 
 religious inclination of the heart " to 
 God's testimonies." One day she came in 
 to our room with a beautiful Bible in her 
 hand. 
 
 '' What do you think of my present ?" 
 she said, smiling, as she laid it before me, 
 and counted out the balance of a five- 
 
610 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 pound note, which our master had given 
 her to buy the holy book. 
 
 I looked at the Bible ; but my mind 
 •was dwelling on another subject. 
 
 " Did he allow you to give your own 
 price for it, Magdalene .'" replied I. 
 
 " There lies the merit of the gift," said 
 she, smiling. '^ He had a one pound-note 
 in his pocket-book ; but he disdained to 
 limit my taste, and gave a five-pound one, 
 that I might gratify myself at any extent 
 of price." 
 
 '•'' Another trait of his generosity," said 
 I ; " but it will not be lost. Take up to 
 him the balance of the money, and show, 
 by the moderate sum you have paid for 
 the book, that the good never abuse the 
 confidence of the generous hearted." 
 
 With a light step Magdalene went up 
 to him, and returned soon again with a 
 heightened fading of pleasure ; as she 
 told me — what perhaps would not have 
 surprised one farther removed from the 
 sphere of simple rusticity in which she had 
 been trained — that he chided her good- 
 naturedly for not buying a dearer gift for 
 herself, and threw the money into his 
 pocket without counting it — a circum- 
 stance so unusual, and so unlike the scru- 
 pulous arithmetical processes of the small 
 grocers of Ayr, mth whom she had dealt, 
 that she was utterly at a loss what to think 
 of it. Our peace and comfort continued, 
 several months passed, and we grew every 
 day more sensible of his kindness. He 
 required to get the fifty-pound note, re- 
 ceived from Mr. Barrow, changed, to en- 
 able him to pay his tailor, whose account, 
 must, as I thought, have been a large one, 
 or his charities must have borne heavy 
 upon his purse in the meantime ; and, the 
 latter reason I was inclined, from my 
 knowledge of his extreme generosity, to 
 deem the true one ; but inquiry was out 
 of ray province, and I went to a private 
 banking-house, got the note turned into 
 smaller notes, of five pounds each, two of 
 which he afterwards gave me as another 
 advance of my wages, and with a view, as 
 
 he said, to send another remittance to my 
 mother, ivlagdalene had been able to 
 give her only three pounds of the ten 
 pounds I sent ; thus she had got eight 
 pounds from me ; and the power now giv- 
 en me of again relieving my aged parent 
 filled my heart with a new-born joy that 
 threw its influence over the minutest trait 
 of our domestic concerns. That very 
 night I sent ofi" one of the notes, and ]Mag- 
 dalene wrote her letter on the third page 
 of the sheet that contained mine. He 
 alone who has sent the tribute of a son's 
 love to his parent can appreciate the en- 
 joyment of that night. If a " gift," as 
 the prophet says, " has a grace to every 
 man living," what is the virtue, the beau- 
 ty, the soul-entrancing influence of that 
 which fills the heart of a mother with 
 gladness! — and how true is it that the 
 grace and working efiects of it are not 
 limited to the time or the occasion, but, 
 like a sweet medicament that is pleasant at 
 the taking, is yet more delightful in its 
 regenerative operation on the whole heart, 
 being the life and conversation of him who 
 rejoices in the blessing } That night was 
 another of the happiest I ever witnessed. 
 Magdalene and I sat by ourselves and en- 
 joyed the good things of this life in peace ; 
 for our master always kept his study, and 
 every pleasure we experienced seemed to 
 be sanctified by the recollection that she 
 who was my parent and her benefactress 
 would enjoy her portion. I watched my 
 wife's face as she drank her health — the 
 tear stood in her eye ; and it was that 
 (the most beautiful of all) which comes 
 from the heart, which ofi"ers love and pity 
 as sacrifices to Him who cherishes them as 
 the fairest gift of his creatures. I could 
 have said, with the servants of Holofernes 
 — " There is not such a woman from one 
 end of the earth to the other, both for 
 beauty of countenance and wisdom of 
 words." 
 
 While thus sitting over the fire, our at- 
 tention was directed to a carriage that 
 stopped at the door. We heard the door 
 
THE VICTIM OP THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 611 
 
 of it open, then a pattering of feet, and 
 low broken words of converse passing be- 
 tween several people about the front part 
 of the house. The door opened suddenly, 
 and two men entered, leading between 
 them an aged female. We heard at the 
 same time several feet upon the stair lead- 
 ing to our master's room, and a sudden 
 beating and tramping upon the floor, as if 
 people were rushing backwards and for- 
 wards ; then, subdued voices, in broken, 
 impassioned snatches ; then the sound of 
 a loud crash, as if the door of his apart- 
 ment had been forced ; again rushing 
 backwards, a sudden and headlong descent 
 down the stair, and in a moment, three 
 other men precipitated themselves into the 
 room, calling out, — 
 
 " Oh, he's here ! he's here ! All's 
 well! all's well !" I stood in a trance. 
 Magdalene was by my side, staring wildly 
 first at one, and then at another ; when, 
 in an instant, the aged female, who was 
 muffled up in the old-fashioned Scotch 
 plaid, ran forward, and threw herself round 
 my neck. 
 
 " My son ! my son !" she cried, and 
 lay sobbing on my bosom. 
 
 '* Enoucjh — enough," cried one of the 
 men, in a rough voice. " She calls him 
 her son — he is our man. Jem, get your 
 handcuffs prepared. Take the wife, too. 
 Search the house, Whittaker and Jones." 
 Two men again went up stairs, and we 
 heard their feet overhead, as if they were 
 in our master's room ; but not one word 
 of the latter reached our ears, though we 
 were satisfied that he was there when the 
 men entered. The man called Jem seized 
 my mother roughly by the waist, and pull- 
 ed her away ; but it was only to precipi- 
 tate her to the ground, for her energies 
 were gone, and she had been supported 
 alone by my bosom. The sight of my pa- 
 rent, stretched out upon the floor, pale as 
 a corpse, and presenting none of the ap- 
 pearances of life, rendered me frantic — I 
 lifted my arm and struck the man to the 
 earth. Magdalene rushed between us. 
 
 uttering frightful screams ; but was in- 
 stantly seized by another of the men, who 
 proceeded to force upon her arms a pair 
 of strong handcuffs. Regardless of my 
 mother, who still lay among our feet, ap- 
 parently lifeless, the two other men (the 
 one I had felled to the ground having re- 
 covered) rushed upon me, and, overcom- 
 ing all my struggles, soon bound me so 
 effectually that I could not move an arm. 
 One of the men then whispered something 
 into the ear of the one who had bound 
 Magdalene, and he immediately went out. 
 My mind, during aU this extraordinary 
 scene, seemed to be locked up by some 
 freezing power, which laid a restriction 
 upon every thought. I had never yet asked 
 the reason of all this sudden violence ; the 
 drama had moved before me like one of 
 those horrible pageants that flit before the 
 mind of a victim of ephialtes, when one 
 has the power only to see and shudder. 
 The screams of Magdalene rang in my 
 ears, and the extended form of my aged 
 parent glared on my eyes like the presid- 
 ing genius of nightmare, yet without the 
 power to remove the charm by which my 
 mind was bound up. All again was si- 
 lence. The men, who waited for some 
 one, stood and gazed or whispered to each 
 other ; and one of those who had been 
 searching up stairs, came down, holding 
 in his hands a number of steel instru- 
 ments, like those used by engravers, which 
 my early occupation rendered familiar to 
 me, but which I had never seen in my 
 master's apartment, with a great number 
 of papers, having the appearance of Eng- 
 lish bank notes. They continued their 
 whispers, but I could make nothing of 
 what they said ; and, in a few minutes, I 
 saw my mother's head move as she reco- 
 vered from her swoon. 
 
 '' Josey, Josey, my bairn — my last, my 
 only hope !" she cried, as she looked 
 wildly round her, and struggled to rise. 
 ^' What's this ? Thae men said they were 
 sent by you to bring me to live and end 
 my days wi' you. O God ! is this the rest 
 
612 
 
 TALES OP THE BORDERS. 
 
 wherewith je may cause the weary to rest ? 
 Thae messengers have fed me, by the way, 
 wi' wine and strong meats ; and what hae 
 they brought me to see ? My bairn in 
 irons ! Speak, Josey, are ye dumb man ?" 
 
 My senses were gradually returning to 
 me, but my mind was still shrouded in 
 ignorance and mystery. 
 
 ^' You have brought these men with 
 you, mother," said I, " as I held out to 
 them my manacled hands. What mean 
 they ?" 
 
 The question acted like a charm on the 
 grief of Magdalene, whose agonies, ex- 
 pressed by loud lamentation, seemed to 
 scorn the articulated question of a reason, 
 where reason there could be none. 
 
 " Ay, ay," she now cried, as if sudden- 
 ly recurring to what her grief had made 
 her forget, " what is the reason of this 
 violence to those who have walked in the 
 commandments of Him who will judge ye 
 as well as us. Speak, ye hardened men ! 
 Why do ye scowl thus on us who have 
 never wronged any of God's creatures, or 
 broken the laws of our country ?" 
 
 And she ran forward, holding out her 
 hands to the men, who stood like iron 
 statues ; while my mother trailed her legs 
 along on the ground, and clasped the knees 
 of him who held the bunch of notes and 
 the instruments of steel. 
 
 " Mr. Jones !" she exclaimed, as if she 
 knew him intimately, " for God's sake 
 explain this mystery ! You brought me 
 from Scotland to see my son, and used 
 fair words to induce me to leave my 
 peaceful home. ' The hoary head is a 
 crown' that's no usually despised ; there's 
 already grey hairs on your own head, and 
 maybe ye've a son whose affection kept 
 off the first traces o' the snaws o' eild, and 
 wha has comforted ye as mine has com- 
 forted me. Look there, and think what it is 
 to be a father ; and, oh ! forget not what 
 it is to be a mother, if you ever saw the wife 
 o' yer bosom sorrowing for her first born !" 
 " Hush, woman," replied the man, 
 sternly ; " your son is charged with forg- 
 
 ing notes on the Bank of England, and 
 uttering them knowing them to be forged.'' 
 
 " Oh, these notes I got frae him !" she 
 cried, turning a terror-struck eye upon 
 me; ''but it canna be, it canna be; he 
 was only a year wi' Holmes, wha never 
 graved notes." 
 
 " So he was an engraver !" said one of 
 the men, laughing ironically. 
 
 I now saw some glimmerings of what I 
 conceived to be the truth, and my mind 
 ran back and collected instantaneously 
 some of the remarkable circumstances of 
 the conduct of my master. A dreadful 
 array of damning evidence flashed upon 
 me ; the fearful reminiscences started up 
 successively like spectres, each more ter- 
 rible than another ; and the confusion ' 
 around me — the moans of my mother, the 
 wailings of Magdalene, the grim aspects 
 and ominous under-breathed communings 
 of the men — all combined to confuse me, 
 till the consciousness of innocence came 
 upon me like the whisperings of a good 
 angel, and I cried out — 
 
 " Where is Mr. Winter ? He can ex- 
 plain all this. Haste up stairs and bring 
 him here." 
 
 " There is no one up stairs," replied 
 the officer, who had been searching the 
 house; " and why should there? — the 
 house is your own— the receipt for the 
 rent is in your own name, and in my 
 hands." 
 
 The noise of another carriage was 
 now heard, which was the signal for 
 our removal. Magdalene was dragged to 
 the door in spite of her struggles and 
 screams, and I did not see her again, for 
 their object was to keep us separate ; and, 
 for that purpose, the second coach had 
 been sent for. I was next laid hold of ; 
 and, the moment the men put a hand on 
 me, I was fast locked in the arms of my 
 mother, who, having been roused again 
 from the state of despair-born dream that 
 succeeded her swoon, struggled forward, 
 sinking at every step, and seized me so 
 forcibly, sobbing and ejaculating broken 
 
 !i 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 613 
 
 words, that force was resorted to, to free 
 me fr.cjm her grasp. I saw her again fall, 
 and heard her cries, as I was hurried pre- 
 cipitously from the room, and thrown into 
 the other coach, which went off at a rapid 
 rate in the wake of the other ; the sound 
 of the wheels of which came on my ears 
 as my mother's cries died away. 
 
 We were conveyed to the police office, 
 and placed in separate rooms. I was still 
 comparatively in a state of stupor ; but 
 could too well hear that a number of peo- 
 ple were arriving at intervals, and that 
 an examination was in progress. Having 
 been locked up, I listened at the door, 
 and heard Magdalene sobbing loud, as 
 she was hurried along, to be, as I suppos- 
 ed, examined. The door opened, some 
 time afterwards ; a number of people were 
 introduced into the room where I was ; 
 and. I could recognize among them many 
 of the individuals whom I had had recourse 
 to when getting exchanged the notes which 
 Mr. Winter had requested me to get dis- 
 posed of. They all fixed their eyes on 
 me, and, doubtless, recognized me ; and, 
 in particular, I saw Mr. Havering busy in 
 conversation with one of the individuals 
 present, who seemed to take a lead in the 
 investigation. They kept whispering to 
 one another, until all the identifiers seem- 
 ed satisfied. I shook at all this dread ar- 
 ray of mystery ; my confidence forsook 
 me. " The diviners had seen a lie," 
 doubtless, and had " told false dreams ;" 
 but 1 had no power to show the truth, for 
 at this moment, the thought rushed into 
 ray mind, like the blue light of a spectral 
 vision, that I could not even prove that 
 any one, had ever seen my master, after we 
 came to London. The thou2;ht was strik- 
 ing, nay, wonderful ; and as my mind 
 wandered in the inane void of this dread- 
 ful negative, I thought I would have gone 
 mad. I believe there was a temporary 
 insanity on me ; for, as I shook my hand- 
 cuffs and rolled my eyes about, the people 
 gazed at me, and I heard some one whis- 
 per — " He is personating madness." This 
 
 calmed me a little. I again rested upon 
 my innocence, and turned my face to 
 heaven, as the words of Darius rose in my 
 mind — " Thy God whom thou servest con- 
 tinually, he will deliver thee." The peo- 
 ple now went out, and 1 was again left by 
 myself. I now thought of my examina- 
 tion ; but every effort I made to think of 
 proving that I had a master in London at 
 ally let alone the establishing that the 
 graving implements were his — that he 
 forged the notes — (if they were forged) — 
 that he sent me with them — that he gave 
 me those to send to my mother — fell back 
 upon me with a death-weight, and crush- 
 ed my spirit, till I sank down in a state of 
 exhaustion and despair. 
 
 I was lying groaning on the ground, 
 when the officers again entered, to take 
 me before the judge. I could scarcely 
 walk ; and, though I muttered, *' he de- 
 livereth and rescueth, and he worketh 
 signs and wonders in heaven," the words 
 had no effect upon my heart — they were 
 mere breath, and I shook against the ter- 
 rible sign that God seemed to have for- 
 saken me. When placed before the judge, 
 I was flurried, and presented every appear- 
 ance of guilt ; for, still the horrid weight 
 was upon my mind that I could not make 
 even a feasible story of God's truth. The 
 examination began ; and 1 answered, ac- 
 cording lo the things that had been swerv- 
 ing, neither to the right nor to the left. I 
 began at Ayr, and traced all my progress 
 to London ; stated what had happened 
 there ; my master's secret ; my duties as 
 a servant ; the reason why I took the re- 
 ceipt for the house in my own name ; the 
 selling of the horses ; the exchange of the 
 notes — (all of which had been replaced, 
 as I now suspected, by false ones, when 
 my back was tm-ned) ; the receipt of Mr. 
 Barrow's remittance ; and the exchange 
 of that with the presents to my mother ; 
 everything, in short, truly and faithfully, 
 yet timidly and nervelessly as ever. The 
 doubting and incredulous eye of the judge 
 shook me by its cruel expression. He ap- 
 
614 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 peared to me to think that the answer to 
 all I had said, lay in one damning ques- 
 tion — 
 
 " Were you ever an engraver r" said 
 
 he. 
 
 " Yes," I answered (for I abhorred a 
 lie, though it possessed the charm of my 
 salvation from the rope) ; "but I was 
 only a year with Mr. Holmes." 
 
 " One of quick parts may learn much 
 in a year," was his answer, accompanied 
 by a look that showed he believed me 
 guilty. 
 
 " Now," he said, " we have heard a 
 great deal from your wife and from your- 
 self about some one you call Mr. Winter, 
 on whom it pleases you to lay all the crime 
 of which you are charged. Can you tell 
 me anything of him — where he came from, 
 who are his relations, with whom he was 
 acquainted ?" 
 
 " His father was stated by himself to be 
 Mr. Winter of Holmside,in Hertfordshire ; 
 and the name of his agent is Mr. Barrow," 
 " Since your wife was examined," re- 
 plied he, " inquiries have been made about 
 these names, and no such individuals are 
 supposed to exist. Can you not give me 
 the name of any one individual who ever 
 saw your master in London .?" 
 
 I stood silent. The fact was undoubt- 
 ed. I could not condescend on a single 
 person who had ever seen him since he 
 came to London. It would have been 
 better for me if I had continued silent, 
 for my answer, when it came, was a wild 
 rhapsody of incoherent efforts to express 
 my own wonder that I could tell nothing 
 I of him, and could condescend on no one 
 1 in the city who had ever seen him. And 
 I could plainly perceive that, by this, I 
 sealed the fate of my testimony. It was 
 evidently considered as a piece of ill- 
 executed invention, bungled, besides, by 
 my own imputed sense of guilt, which 
 dried up my throat, till my tongue, that 
 rattled in my parched mouth, could not 
 obey the behest of my concerted ingenuity. 
 Ere I was removed, however, I recollected 
 
 myself so far as to be able to say that the 
 people of the inn at Ayr, and in the inns 
 alonfi; the road from thence to London, 
 would swear, if called upon, that I, at 
 least, served and journeyed with a master, 
 whose name, as stated by me, some of 
 them would, in all probability, recollect. 
 My letters to my mother, too, made refer- 
 ence to Mr. Winter ; and if these were 
 got, they would go far to prove the truth 
 of my story. 
 
 " Was he not an accomplice .^" said the 
 examinator ; " and, as for your letters, it 
 is not likely you would divulge the true 
 mode by which you got the money to send 
 to your parent. Yet these things shall be 
 inquired into, and you will receive the 
 benefit of the inquiry. — There is a strange 
 simplicity in the art of these rogues," he 
 said, in a low voice, to an individual who 
 sat by him. 
 
 The examination finished to the satis- 
 faction of the prosecutors. I was sent to 
 Newgate. I knew nothing of the fate of 
 Magdalene ; but bad reason to think she 
 was also confined there as an accomplice. 
 My mother was kept away from me, as she 
 was a strono; witness arrainst me. I was 
 heavily loaded with irons, and lay upon 
 the floor groaning bitterly, till a disturbed 
 sleep overtook me about three in the 
 morning, when the most frightful visions 
 rose before me, assuming all shapes and 
 forms, but draining the foundations of 
 those types from the book which I had 
 made the rule of my life. " The Ancient 
 of Days I thought did sit, whose garment 
 was white as snow, and the hair of his 
 head like the pure wool ; his throne was 
 like the fiery flame, and his wheels as 
 burning fire. A fiery stream issued, and 
 came forth from before him, thousand 
 thousands ministered to him, and ten 
 thousand times ten thousand stood before 
 him ; the judgment was set, and the book 
 was opened." I was uttering these words 
 of Daniel, which I had by heart ; the 
 vision was inspired by them, and glowing 
 vividly and more vividly, inspired, in 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 615 
 
 turn, my voice which, rising higher and 
 higher till it reached the dissonance of a 
 scream, I woke in the dark, and, tossing 
 about my limbs, made the chains rattle 
 forth the dreadful evidence of my situa- 
 tion. I thouijht I heard the fjroans of 
 Magdalene in the next cell ; but, ail my 
 efforts to make myself certain of the cir- 
 cumstance, were counteracted by loud 
 gusts of wind, that whistled through the 
 gratings of the windows ; and several loud 
 peals of thunder shook the fabric of the 
 jail, and wound up my accumulated hor- 
 rors. I slept no more that night ; but, 
 my waking visions were as frightful as my 
 dreams ; for, in spite of all the assurances 
 I drew from my knowledge of Scripture, 
 there arose a sickenino; feelino; of utter 
 helplessness — the birth of the conscious- 
 ness of my want of the evidence of man to 
 speak for mo — that seemed to " strike 
 down the truth to the ground," and left 
 me a hostage for the sins of man, in the 
 hands of that God whose ways no man can 
 find out. 
 
 I can scarcely tell how I passed the fol- 
 lowing two days and nights ; the time was 
 composed of alternated periods of hope 
 and despair ; and all I heard was the turn- 
 key's heavy step, the rattling of his keys, 
 and, occasionally, the hollow moanings of 
 the individual I took for Magdalene, in 
 the adjoining cell. On the third day, 1 
 got the assistance of an attorney, through 
 what means I know not. I told him my 
 extraordinary case. He seemed to believe 
 my story, but stared in amazement at the 
 array of evidence against me, and the 
 small gleam of established truth that ap- 
 peared to lighten the darkness of that 
 mystery that invests appearances with 
 magnified proportions. He was a quick 
 man, and hurried away instantly to ex- 
 amine the window, from which my master 
 must have escaped on the night of the 
 apprehension ; to inquire into the circum- 
 stances of his meeting with Havering, 
 when he agreed to take the house ; to get 
 my letter to Magdalene when I mentioned 
 
 his name ; and to ascertain if any of the 
 people in Ayr could speak to my having 
 been employed by him as his servant. 
 Ten days of anguish passed, and the result 
 of his inquiries was communicated to me. 
 Winter had taken care to pull down the 
 sash of the window by which he escaped, 
 so that, when the officers forced the door, 
 they saw no trace of any one having been 
 there. Mr. Havering admitted that a man 
 called and made an agreement for the house 
 in my name ; but the account he gave of 
 him differed so much from the description 
 of Winter's person, that there seemed 
 reason for supposing that he had deputed 
 some accomplice to execute this part of 
 his scheme. Magdalene's letter had been 
 destroyed, and those to my mother showed 
 nothing in my favor ; while no one in Ayr 
 could say more than that I left that place 
 in the employment of a person who was 
 never seen there before, and whose name 
 was unknown to them. It even came out 
 against me, that I had, while living in the 
 house, parried questions put to me by 
 some who inquired if any one lived in the 
 house besides me and my wife ; and she 
 too had observed the same care to conceal 
 the fact that Winter was living there in 
 secret. How little was it known, that we 
 conceived we were doing good, and saving 
 a young woman from a forced marriage by 
 thus concealing our master. " Do not 
 evil that good may come of it." How 
 was this truth made manifest to us ? If 
 we had not committed this departure from 
 the plain and open way of truth, we might 
 have been saved ; for Winter might have 
 been seized by the officers as a suspected 
 character, in consequence of his habits of 
 going out at night ; but, having thus con- 
 cealed the man whom we now endeavored 
 to inculpate, ail the endeavors of our legal 
 advisers to account for our conduct, by 
 what was indeed the real truth, rather 
 tended to bind the chain of circumstances 
 closer and closer, and make our guilt the 
 more manifest. 
 
 The evidence for me thus dwindled into 
 
616 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 nothing ; while the mass that was procured 
 against me was, from the very nature of 
 the case, greater than was ever known to 
 be produced against any forger that ever 
 was hanged at Tyburn. The house was 
 mine ; the engraving instruments were 
 found there ; I had been an engraver at an 
 early period of my life ; a great number 
 of notes were found in the house ; a great 
 number had been circulated ; every good 
 note I had given to Winter had been re- 
 placed by him, when I was in the low part 
 of the house, by a bad one, which it fell 
 to me or my wife to get changed ; and, 
 during all these proceedings, no one ever 
 saw any person under whose authority I 
 acted — I being householder, engraver, and 
 utterer. How was it possible to conceive 
 a stronger case of forgery ? 
 
 As the day of my trial approached, and 
 no trace had been got of Winter, I saw the 
 full extent of my danger — I could not 
 avoid a conviction — and Magdalene, who 
 was indicted also, might be fortunate in 
 escaping with transportation. I had not 
 seen her ; my mother was kept from me, 
 and none of my relations in Scotland would 
 own me. The day came ; I met my Mag- 
 dalene in the dock ; we looked at each 
 other in silence through bloodshot eyes, 
 that were past the stage of weeping ; I 
 perceived that she trusted implicitly in 
 heaven ; for she turned her face upwards 
 when she met my gaze ; but, for myself, 
 I was lost in the workings of a mind that 
 adhered to the dictates of my revered faith, 
 and could only wonder why it was His 
 pleasure that I should fall an innocent 
 victim to bloodthirsty laws which I had 
 never broken. The trial proceeded. Why 
 should I, even if I could, detail the evi- 
 dence that was led against me } I have 
 already, in effect, given it. Any man 
 who has read my narrative, may see it too 
 well. My judges shall read it, and feel 
 it, as if the characters were traced in fire, 
 and burned the orbs that glanced over it. 
 There was no evidence worth mentioning 
 for us. The story of Winter was a phan- 
 
 tom or an invention of guilt, to lay crime 
 on the back of another. I sickened as the , 
 evidence proceeded, and lost my power of i 
 following it, during hours of a wild, ! 
 dreamy, unconsciousness of everything but '. 
 the horrors of the gallows ; the rope of i 
 which I felt round my throat, as my im- j 
 peded respiration prevented the blood 
 from circulating in the cervical veins, and, 
 stopping it in my head, produced a fire as 
 if scathing irons had been trailed along 
 my brain. The yell of my wife, when 
 sentence of death was pronounced against 
 me (her own fate being transportation for 
 life), roused me to a more living sense of 
 my condition. 
 
 We were hurried back to prison. I am 
 to die to-morrow ; and I write this nar- 
 rative by the side of the jailor, who has 
 unloosed my hand for that purpose. I am 
 now past all complaint : there is some se- 
 cret purpose in heaven to be served by my 
 death. I am not told " to put forth a 
 riddle" like Ezekiel ; but let these poor 
 conceited wretches, who lie at ease in the 
 sunbeams of legislation, and think that the 
 law erreth not, but is ever bright, to 
 lighten good and show forth evil, read my 
 narrative, and tremble as they think (what 
 is true) that many have died as I am to 
 die — sacrifices to the bloody Moloch of 
 their statute-book. I have heard of some 
 philosopher who wrote, that it were better 
 that one innocent man should die, than 
 that twenty guilty ones should escape. 
 Oh, that that man had felt one moment — 
 one single moment of this fire that burns 
 in my brain. Were he to live for ever, he 
 would not find space for a sufficient repen- 
 tance of his maniac-thought. Were my 
 mother dead ere to-morrow, one-half of 
 my agony would be abetted ; but that is 
 not decreed. Farewell, my too dear 
 Magdalene ! — my mother, whose name I 
 can scarcely write for trembling ! — and 
 farewell, thou world, which would be fair, 
 were it not for the devices of men ! Truth 
 shall not ever be quenched : there is a 
 light in the sky, which shines, and will ever 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE STATUTE-BOOK. 
 
 617 
 
 sliine, thou2:h man shall rear against it the 
 vapors of his wisdom ; and there is a mer- 
 cy there that his bloody laws shall never 
 diminish. To-morrow, by this hour, 1 
 shall sea that light and feel that mercy ! 
 Adieu ! J. B. 
 
 I have read the preceding over, and the 
 paper is wet with my tears — jMagdalene 
 and my mother, now by my side, have 
 listened to every word. About two hours 
 since, they were introduced to me by an 
 officer who held a paper in his hand. It 
 was a reprieve. Winter had been caught 
 by the officer Jones ; and the innkeeper at 
 Ayr, who had remained in town after the 
 trial, identified him. It turned out that 
 he was an old offender with a new name, 
 and thus it is made clear to me, that if I 
 had not concealed him, I never would have 
 fallen into the niisfortune from which I 
 have been so wonderfully saved by an all- 
 seeing Providence. The moment that 
 Winter was seized, the circumstance of our 
 ready confessions struck, with proper 
 force, the minds of the authorities. Every 
 effort was made to get at the truth ; and, 
 if 1 have arraigned the laws, 1 am bound 
 to laud the men who dispense them. Oh, 
 the joy of that moment, when I again 
 clasped to my bosom my wife, and hung 
 
 on the neck of my parent ! There was 
 not one word spoken. The chaplain, who 
 was attending some of the criminals, en- 
 tered ; and, having taken up the narrative 
 I had written, read it to a number of 
 individuals whom curiosity had drawn in 
 to see the effect of a reprieve workino- on 
 the minds of the innocent. Many of them 
 wept as he proceeded, and as they cast 
 their eyes on us, who sat with the " bur- 
 den of unspeakable joy" still on our hearts. 
 Our first words were to God. I have re- 
 tained the manuscript through many 
 years of prosperity, and have read it to 
 my children. Jt has been a good chastener 
 of our thoughts of this world, and has 
 proved, in its effects, that heaven has its 
 own ways of claiming and retaining those 
 who otherwise might have fallen before the 
 Baal of earth ; for my success in life has 
 been nearly unexampled, and in the midst 
 of riches I might have set up another 
 image than that of Him who snatched us 
 from destruction. Let no one look with a 
 sullen eye on the misfortunes that come 
 not of himself. Prosperity has ruined 
 more souls than ever did misfortune or 
 the pleasures of the body. I have seen 
 and drunk the light of the jewel in the 
 toad's head, J. B. 
 
 \ 
 
618 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 PAYING OF DEBTS 
 
 As there are many ways of contracting 
 debts, so there are many ways of liquidat- 
 ing tliem. Good honest people know only 
 of the true legitimate mode of " coming 
 down with the dust," and getting a re- 
 ceipt upon a proper stamp. Simple- 
 hearted beings ! how little do they know 
 of the ways of the world or the subtleties 
 of man ! The scheme of the cessioj 
 whereby, as by a well-filled sponge, thou- 
 sands of pounds may be liquidated in a 
 day, or the exquisite device of the nega- 
 tive oath, by which a debt may be paid in 
 a few minutes — both beautiful expedients 
 — are equally unknown to them ; but there 
 are other modes of discharging debts not 
 so well known or so much resorted to as 
 those we have now mentioned — and one 
 of these we will now lay before our readers, 
 with the assurance that the facts are ab- 
 solutely true. 
 
 In the town of — - (if the cap does 
 
 not fit, do not put it on), a poor woman, 
 whose maiden name was Finlayson, and 
 who had a daughter married to an in- 
 dustrious tradesman, named Gibb, died 
 of a putrescent fever. Her-son-in-law 
 had been for some time out of employ- 
 ment, and all his earnings had been con- 
 sumed during that unproductive period. 
 He had no money, and his mother-in-law 
 had left not a farthing. Who then was to 
 bury her .^ The parish would not inter- 
 fere, because the deceased's brother, an 
 undertaker in the same town, and a very 
 rich man, was the very person apparently 
 pointed out, by nature and circumstances, 
 to do the last offices to his dead sister. 
 I But the brother was not bound by law to 
 I bury his sister, and natural affection had 
 \ no influence with him, as well from an 
 i original hardness of heart, as from the 
 ' citadel of the passions having been laid 
 j hold of and occupied by the love of filthy 
 
 lucre. He would not undertake the fu- 
 neral of his sister. It is a fact — we pledge 
 ourselves for it — he would not furnish a 
 coffin to her, except upon one condition, 
 and that was that the poor industrious 
 daughter's husbafid should become bound 
 to pay her uncle the price of the " dead- 
 kist " for his own sister. Much time was 
 occupied in the negotiation, and poor 
 Gibb was subjected to the heart-rending 
 condition of seeing his wife's mother lying, 
 beyond "nature's time," a corpse in his 
 house, while he was wrangling with her 
 miserabl-e wretch of a brother about the 
 conditions on which he would furnish the 
 coffin. It was at last arranged. Gibb 
 granted his obligation — i^he coffin came — 
 the old woman was put into her " fir- 
 fecket" and buried, and the i£3 : los., 
 as the price of the box, became a debt. 
 Thus, poor Gibb must pay or go to jail. 
 In the first place, he collected, from all 
 quarters, three thousand sis hundred 
 pieces of the current coin of Great Bri- 
 tain, called farthings. These he carefully 
 tied up in a leather-bag, and, taking 
 with him two trusty sooth-fast witnesses, 
 away he went, like a bold and independent 
 man, to pay his debt. He chose a very 
 particular time for his visit, the hour of 
 lifting of a very rich burgher, whose fu- 
 neral, conducted by the creditor, was to 
 take place that day. 
 
 " I'm come to pay my debt, Mr. Fin- 
 layson," said Gibb, stepping forward to 
 the undertaker, who was dressing himself 
 for the funeral. 
 
 " I'm glad o' that, John," replied the 
 other, " as weel for yer ain sake as mine, 
 for nae man can baud up his head in so- 
 ciety, if he's awin a single farthing." 
 
 '' An' far less if he is awin three thou- 
 sand six hundred," said John, with a 
 chuckle and a shake of the ba.s;. 
 
PAYING OF DEBTS. 
 
 CIO 
 
 " Feth, an' ye're a perfect Cocker, 
 John," rejoined tlie undertaker. " I dare- 
 say that is just the number in £3 : 15s.; 
 but come away, man — ye see I've ae 
 stockinor on and anither aff. It wants 
 twenty minutes o' the hour, and Bailie 
 A damson maunna lie a minute after the 
 liftin time." 
 
 *' Your sister lay a week after nature's 
 time," responded Gibb. " I am here to 
 pay my debt, and have nae concern wi' the 
 funeral o' Bailie Adamson, wha wouldna 
 hae paid a single farthing for me, let alane 
 three thousand six hundred, if he had 
 been leevin and I had been starvin." 
 
 *' Weel, weel," cried Finlayson, impa- 
 tiently, " come awa, come awa. Here's a 
 stamp, and I'll write the receipt. We'll 
 sune knock it aff. Ane's figers are nim- 
 bler at writing receipts than signing bills." 
 
 And he set about getting pen and ink 
 in a great hurry, with one leg still bare, 
 and the stocking on the other half rolled 
 down. The receipt was written and lay 
 unsigned on the table, till the money was 
 counted. 
 
 " Noo, noo, John — down wi' the dust, 
 lad, as quick as ye like," said the old 
 hunks. 
 
 Gibb obeyed. The bag was thrown 
 with a loud noise upon the table. The 
 undertaker started at the extraordinary 
 sound. 
 
 " What's this, man .?" said he. 
 
 " My debt," calmly replied John, pro- 
 ceeding at the same gravely to open the 
 bag, and pour the three thousand six 
 hundred farthings upon the table, to the 
 great surprise of the creditor, who could 
 not at first comprehend the nature of the 
 transaction. 
 
 " There's ane," said John, taking up a 
 farthing, and laying it carefully on the 
 farthest corner of the table, as if he in- 
 tended to cover the entire board in the 
 progress of his laborious enumeration. 
 
 " There's twa," he was proceeding, 
 when the creditor, on recovering himself 
 stopped him. 
 
 "What's this o't.?" said he, getting 
 angry, as the truth became more apparent 
 — " what do you mean, sir .?" 
 
 " To pay my debt, in the current coin 
 o' the realm," was the answer. 
 
 " It's no a lawfu tender," cried the un- 
 dertaker. " Besides, I hae nae time to 
 stand and see you count that bagfa' o' 
 bodies. I canna wait. Tak them awa, 
 and bring me the usual respectable cir- 
 culating medium o' the country, and ye'U 
 get yer receipt." 
 
 " I hereby offer ye, in the presence o' 
 these witnesses, payment o' my debt, in 
 the king's coin," rejoined the determined 
 debtor. " I am ready to proceed with my 
 enumeration. There's three." 
 
 " I canna submit to this now," cried 
 the under-taker, in an impatient tone. 
 " The hour o' Bailie Adamson's funeral 
 is at hand. They're waiting for me. 
 Come back in the afternoon, and we'll no 
 cast out about the kind o' coin. I'll gic 
 ye a discount for respectable looking 
 cash." 
 
 " I want nae discount," rejoined John. 
 
 " But I canna even speak about it at 
 present, man," replied the other. " See, 
 there's a message frae the widow. Come, 
 come — tak awa the bag, and come again 
 in the afternoon." 
 
 And he breathlessly proceeded in his 
 operation of dressing ; muttering deep 
 curses as he drew on the reluctant clothes, 
 and stamping about the floor in a state of 
 great excitement. John remained im- 
 moveable, with the fourth farthing between 
 his finger and thumb. 
 
 " Do you refuse payment o' yer debt, 
 sir .^" said he, with a provoking gravity. 
 
 " Curse your farthings !" cried the un- 
 dertaker, now getting to the height of fury, 
 as he looked for articles of dress he had, 
 in his confusion and anger, mislaid, and 
 went raging through the room like one 
 demented. 
 
 " Mrs. Adamson has sent for ye, Mr. 
 Finlayson," said the servant, now enter- 
 ing. 
 
G20 
 
 TALES OF THE BORDERS. 
 
 " Will ye no tak payment o' yer debt, 
 sir ?" rejoined Gibb, in a softer tone. 
 
 " May the big-horned Mahoun tak 
 you and your debt thegither !" vociferated 
 the now completely roused undertaker. 
 " I'll hae nanc o't. Awa wi' ye !" And, 
 twisting his oravat round his throat, he 
 hurried out of the house. 
 
 The witnesses heard the declaration. 
 John gathered up his coins and proceeded 
 home. In a week after, he was cited be- 
 fore the bailies for payment of the debt. 
 He appeared with his witnesses. The 
 nature of the debt was set forth, and, in- 
 deed, the bailie had heard of the infamous 
 transaction previously, and was predis- 
 posed to favor the defender. 
 
 '* Are you due the pursuer the price of 
 this coffin .^" said the judge, to Gibb. 
 
 ^' In order to get my mother-in-law 
 buried," replied Gibb, " I did become 
 bound to pay to her brother, the pursuer, 
 the price of the coffin. I offered him 
 payment, and I am ready to prove that 
 he refused it." 
 
 "Is this true, Mr. Finlaysonr" asked 
 the judge. 
 
 " Partly, and partly no," replied the 
 
 creditor. " He insulted me by offering 
 me a bagfu o' farthings — no a legal tender 
 for sic a sum." 
 
 " And you refused the king's coin .?" 
 rejoined the judge. " What say the wit- 
 nesses ?" 
 
 The witnesses were examined, and swore 
 that Finlayson not only refused the far- 
 things, but the debt itself. 
 
 " 1 am bound to receive the evidence 
 of these men," said the judge addressing 
 the pursuer. " it is indeed partly corro- 
 borated by your own statement. I say 
 nothing of the extraordinary nature of 
 the debt itself — that lies between you and 
 your conscience ; but you have refused 
 the king's coin in payment of your claim ; 
 and this would be enough, although it 
 were unsupported by the fact that (per- 
 haps in anger — I care not) you refused 
 the debt altogether. No man is bound to 
 offer payment of a debt twice, and I there- 
 fore discharge the defender, and declare 
 that this coffin debt no longer exists." 
 
 A clap of hands from the people in the 
 court followed this sentence, and John 
 Gibb was congratulated by many on the 
 result of his ingenuity. 
 
V-, '^: - ^^7 -if 
 
 
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